




Glass 


Copyright N ” ^ 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 


« < 


I 






f 





« 


» 










I 


* 

% 


’ r 


4 


I 


« 


( 


f 






» 








* « 


iU 

If 


» 






I • 


t 


I 




I 


.'i 


< 


» 


it 




* 


« 








i 


7 

I 


tt 


\ 


«> 

I ! > 


\ 


• I 






A* ' 


* . ’ 

.•%.» * 


i ^ 

xi , 

>• 


'• rl 




* - 


h' 


V 

.' « 




, •<♦ 


S I I 

' ’ 1 

■ ■ ■■ r. t i 




:v 

f!." 


» r A 


« 


* 


I 


« 






•* » 




< 

• K 




I 


* 


k 


» 


« 


A 





> 


\ 


\ 


i I 


y 

y - 

I'J • .r 


1 *11 
>A.* 


* 








« 


'h 


I 


I 



I 




f 


1 * 




'k 



» . 




t ■ 


■'-r '■• 

I*'' ■ 









/ 



BOOKS BY MARY R. S. ANDREWS 

Published by CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 

The Eternal Feminine. Illustrated net $1.35 

August First net $1.00 

The Eternal Masculine. Illustrated. 

net $1.30 

The Militants. Illustrated'. . . net $1.35 
Bob and the Guides. Illustrated net $1.35 


Old Glory net .50 

The Counsel Assigned net .50 

The Courage of the Commonplace net .50 

The Lifted Bandage net .50 

The Perfect Tribute net .50 


OLD GLORY 



t 




“iVe got the courage to 


[Page 11] 




OLD GLORY 


BY 

Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews 

Author of “The Perfect Tribute” 


NEW YORK 

Charles Scribner’s Sons 
1916 


Copyright, 1916, hy Charles Scribner^ s Sons 


Published July, 1916 




JUL 28 1916 

©CI.A437029 
( ' 


CONTENTS 


The Colors 

The Stranger Within the Gates 


The Star-Spangled Banner 



THE COLORS 



THE COLORS 


I T comes as a surprise to reasonable people 
to observe that in the last analysis it is 
not reason which makes history. A vital 
question involving peace or war came up 
in the American Congress at Washington 
the other day; the pros and cons were de- 
bated exhaustively; but when the day of 
the vote arrived hundreds of responsible law- 
makers were seen swayed by a power not 
born of argument, a passion not known since 
the Spanish war. It was not pros and cons 
which turned the scales; a cry of ‘‘Stand by 
the President’’ swept the representatives into 
line with an unashamed whirlwind of loyalty 
to country and the country’s leader. Logic is 
the careful hewing of steps up a mountain; 
emotion sums years of hewing. It is attain- 
ment, whether reached by steps or by a 
flight of inspiration. The sights and sounds 
[ 3 ] 


OLD GLORY 


which stand for things loved in childhood 
have a hold well-nigh undying on later life. 
Millions of men march to death knowing lit- 
tle or nothing of the reason why — knowing 
that they foUow their country’s flag; it is 
enough. An appeal to honor, and armies rush 
to the gims; a catchword of patriotism, and 
stately legislative bodies toss away formulas 
and arrive, white-hot, at certainty. One must, 
indeed, look to it that the rudder is made of 
the oak of the brain, yet the breeze which 
fills the sails and drives the ship is forever 
the rushing, mighty wind of the spirit. 

There are officers of the United States 
navy to-day, stately captains, well girthed, 
and more than one admiral, who, meeting 
each other in China or at a club in Washing- 
ton, shake their heads reminiscently and 
drop their voices as one speaks of “ The night 
when Jerry Vane took hashish.” It was of a 
22d of February, that historic night thirty 
years back, and the U. S. S. John Paul Jones 
was celebrating the Truth Teller’s birth in 
[ 4 ] 


THE COLORS 

Caribbean waters. The event which made 
the night memorable had been preparing for 
two days. Two days back the junior oflScer 
of the ship had picked up a book on narcotics 
in the doctor’s cabin; the book was well writ- 
ten and told tales to fire a young daredevil. 

want to stimulate my imagination; I 
want to see what it’s like,” urged Jerrold 
Vane. 

The doctor had happened to find some 
hashish. Vane had a winning way, and the 
doctor was young and careless, too, and, very 
wrongly, the small phial of thickish brown 
liquid was carried off in Vane’s pocket when 
he said good night. The next day experi- 
ments were not in order, but early in the 
afternoon of the 22d he measured what the 
unwise doctor had told him was a dose, and 
then a drop or two, and swallowed it. 

There were doings in Vane’s cabin that 
afternoon. The story goes that he set his 
alarm-clock at intervals of half an hour and 
took naps with it under his ear. Between naps 
many fellow officers called on him, and there 
[ 5 ] 


OLD GLORY 


was unholy mirth heard through his door. In 
any case, he appeared at dinner in a state of 
excitement, from which he dropped to sleep at 
intervals, waking, flamboyant, to delight the 
table with cheerful madness. Every one on 
the ship knew what had happened, and, 
moreover, the lad was the spoiled child of 
the ward-room. They filled him up, finally, 
with black coffee and stood him on his feet. 
He was a Virginian, and most Southern boys 
are born speech-makers; this one noticeably 
so. 

Slight and small, he stood swaying, smil- 
ing, and rubbed his knuckles into eyes bril- 
liant with the drug. Then he caught sight, 
on the wall at the far end of the ward-room, 
of a photograph of Washington draped in 
the American flag. He shot out an arm. 

‘^Old Glory!” he shouted. ''The colors of 
our country — our n-nation’s f-flag ! The red 
lines are dripping blood of soldiers and sail- 
ors, the stars of the States are s-set in the 
blue of hope everlasting, eternal — ^f’rever — 
’n^ ever — ’n’ ever.” 


[ 6 ] 


THE COLORS 


The two rows of uniformed men looked 
up at the lad doubtfully. Yet these senti- 
ments, if not too new, were right; in fact, 
there was something in the abandon of the 
young voice which thrilled one, thrilled and 
mystified. It was interesting to know what 
this nice boy was going to say imder the 
influence of hashish. Jerry Vane had a knack 
of keeping one interested as to what he was 
going to say; he was going to bare his soul 
now, apparently; well, let it come; it was a 
perfectly good young soul, and a little banal 
spread-eagleism on Washington’s birthday 
was not reprehensible. 

‘‘You’ve stuck me up here to make a 
speech,” young Vane went on jovially, “and 
what you expect is a few remarks about our 
refined Christian homes, far, far away, and 
those who love us and miss us, and a gabby 
talk like that leading up to hip, hip, hooray 
for the star-spangled banner and the glorious 
land of freedom. Isn’t that the size of it? 
Well, gentlemen, I can keep on talking that 
way as long’s you like — ^jus’ as long’s you 
[ 7 ] 


OLD GLORY 


like. I don’t think my genins would ever 
get smitten with locomotor ataxia down that 
road. Long’s — you like ” 

The flashing black eyes roved with an in- 
vitation to laughter which met with instant 
answer; to a man the oflScers chuckled indul- 
gently; to a man they glanced at the captain 
sitting v/ith his elbows on the table, staring 
inscrutably at the boy. The boy bent for- 
ward, tossed out a hand. 

‘"Let’s get to the point. Get to the point 
— cheers. On your feet, gentlemen, and swing 
her out for the nation and the father of it — 
America — George Washington — let her go — 
three times three!” 

There was that in his manner which, 
although much cheering had been already 
done, sent the chairs flying backward and 
the long tableful of officers springing to their 
feet. Jerrold Vane was modest, as became 
his youth, on ordinary occasions; that he 
should take command in this manner, being 
accounted for by the drug, was amusing. In 
any case, it was the captain’s affair; as long 
[ 8 ] 


THE COLORS 


as the captain let him run on — and the cap- 
tain, watching, let him run on. The captain 
stood and cheered with the rest. And with 
that, before the deep, ordered baying was 
fairly over, the boy^s head flung back and 
a scream of laughter astounded the table. 
His arms swung like a windmill; his lithe 
body swayed to the limit of this side and 
that. 

‘‘A joke!’^ the boy roared. ‘‘One gigantic, 
international joke — ^the whole shooting-match 
— the American nation !” 

Lieutenant Armstrong, sitting next, caught 
Vane’s arm. “Control yourself, Mr. Vane.” 

Vane, as if frozen by the touch, was as 
still as a statue; he turned his head slowly, 
glared down. Then a radiant smile broke; 
he bent and lifted the big hand on his sleeve, 
kissed it reverently, and replaced it before 
its owner. 

“Oh, damn control, dearie!” he threw at 
Armstrong. “Can’t you let a fellow enjoy 
himself 

Armstrong, through the laughter, looked 
[ 9 ] 


OLD GLORY 


at the captain. “Let him alone. I’m inter- 
ested to see how this stuff affects the brain,’’ 
the captain spoke down the table. 

The boy sped straight past the jog of the 
interruption. “Anybody who’ll stop and 
think,” he announced, “will know that this 
in-intensive enthusiasm about G. Washing- 
ton and our country is the colossal joke of 
history. G. Washington was a good old top 
and a Briton, and that’s why he had the 
sand in his gizzard to kick up a row. He 
caught England when her hands were t-tied 
with France and Spain, and he whipped her 
with a few rag-tags and bobtails, who there- 
after made a high-sounding composition and 
called themselves a nation ! For the love of 
the board of health ! Think about that ! We 
were a handful of colonists, and we’re just 
a bigger handful now. What about a land 
where whole communities — ^political parties 
— of foreigners speak, read newspapers in a 
foreign tongue, live with foreign customs? 
That’s us ! Is that a nation ? Could there be 
an Italian party in France, do you think? 

[ 10 ] 


THE COLORS 


Can you picture a Russian party in Ger- 
many ? There’s no common blood, no inheri- 
tance, no history ” 

A deep murmur interrupted the carrying 
young tones which rolled out these words 
with rapidity. The captain’s voice reached 
across the hubbub. 

‘‘Let him go on,” the captain ordered. 

Fluent words poured on the heels of the 
captain’s sentence. “They call us the melting- 
pot of the nations. More like a rubbish heap; 
we’re a crazy-quilt, a hash, an historic witti- 
cism. There’s no such thing as an American 
nation. I’m no American — I’m an Englishman 
five times removed, and I’ve got the ginger 
to stand up and say it. I’ve got the truthful- 
ness to own that the flag yonder means 
nothing to me, and I’ve got the courage 
to ” 

A full glass of Burgundy stood at his 
plate; he had touched nothing to drink dur- 
ing dinner. With a swift movement he caught 
up the globe of crimson light and poised it 
for a shot, his eyes blazing at the Washing- 
[ 11 ] 


OLD GLORY 

ton and the flag. But Armstrong gripped 
his wrist. Vane slued about, stared down 
at Armstrong, and then — suddenly vague, 
laughing foolishly — he turned the red wine 
upside down into a finger-bowl, where it 
spread and colored the water as bright as 
blood. With that he broke out sobbing; he 
fell into his chair, a dead weight, and, with 
a crashing of china, flung his arms out over 
the table, dropped his head on them, and 
was still. 

In the captain’s cabin the next morning 
Vane reported, a bit pale, but in his right 
mind. ‘‘You sent for me, sir.” 

The captain wrote on, not lifting his head; 
the boy stood and waited. Outside, seas rolled 
heavily up from across the world and flung 
themselves on the ship’s sides with an air of 
finality, unendingly. The captain looked up. 
“Mr. Vane,” he said, “do you remember 
anything of your speech at dinner last 
night.?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“How much?” 

[ 12 ] 


THE COLORS 


Vane considered. “All of it, I think.” 

“You do,” reflected the captain. “You 
were under the influence of a drug, were 
you not?'' 

“Yes, sir.” 

“And not responsible ” 

Vane hesitated. “I knew what I was say- 
ing. I remember. But I shouldn’t have talked 
as I did except for the hashish. There seemed 
to be — a lack of power — ^to inhibit the — the 
boiling over of thought into speech. It was 
as if the engine worked at full speed and the 
steering-gear was broken.” 

The captain smiled. “Not much steering, 
I imagine. It was partly my fault. I had 
been reading the same article which, the 
doctor tells me, set you off, and I was in- 
terested to see how the stuff would affect 
you. I let you go on out of curiosity. I’ll 
admit you surpassed my expectations. I’ve 
sent for you to say that I’d like you, to-night 
at dinner, to explain. Just a word. Of course, 
everybody understands, but things like that 
spoken publicly should be withdrawn pub- 
[ 13 ] 


OLD GLORY 


licly- I’d like you to withdraw them to- 
night.” 

Vane stood tense. 

^‘Well?” demanded the captain, 
can’t do it, sir.” 

‘‘What.^” the captain threw at him. 

“I can’t withdraw what I said, sir,” Vane 
repeated. 

‘‘What do you mean.^ You can’t withdraw 
disloyal words What do you mean, Mr. 
Vane?” 

“I believed it.” The boy spoke in a low 
voice. “I didn’t mean to say it in that way. 
But I can’t take it back because I still be- 
lieve it. I don’t take any stock in the Ameri- 
can nation or, of course, in the colors.” 

Outside the ship seas rolled heavily up 
from across the world and broke on the steel 
sides with a sound of finality — unendingly. 
The boy stood, breathless, steady. If the 
captain had been thumped in the lungs he 
would not have gasped with more violence. 
Words seemed beyond him at first; once he 
found them they came flooding. Plenty of 
[ 14 ] 


THE COLORS 


words. He poured them out on the boy, 
words of indignation, of scorn, of counsel, of 
reason; varieties of words; and the boy stood 
respectful, firm. 

‘‘You are right, sir; the navy is no place 
for me,’^ after a while he answered quietly. 
“I’ll resign my commission, of course. IVe 
been coming to it for a while. I didn’t realize 
how near I was to the — ^jumping-off place till 
that stuff yesterday — ^precipitated things.” 
Once more the captain raged; once more the 
boy, not arguing, stood firm. 

The outcome was that a promising career 
in the United States navy was swiftly ended. 
There was a short sensation about the affair 
in the papers, editorials were written, with 
the young oflScer as a text, as a horrible 
warning against Anglophobia; it was noted 
that Vane had gone into the business world 
under his uncle, a successful steel man; sharp 
things were said as to the young man’s right 
to live in America at all; and then he was 
forgotten — ^forgotten until he emerged from 
oblivion in another role. Twenty years later 
[ 15 ] 


OLD GLORY 


Armstrong ran across him at the Cosmos 
Club in Washington. 

‘‘There’s sand in the chap,” Admiral 
Miller, late captain of the John Paul JoneSy 
considered, talking it over with Armstrong. 
“It took sand for a lad like that to stand up 
to me and tell me with perfect respect that 
he had no opinion of the flag or the nation.” 

“Sand, yes,” Armstrong threw back. “He 
couldn’t roll up a fortune at his present rate 
without qualities. They say he jumps a few 
millions a year.” Then Armstrong’s brows 
lowered. 

There is a curious side-light on American 
patriotism in the attitude of Americans about 
changes of nationality. More than any na- 
tion on the globe, they are used to such, and 
they take it as a matter of course and honor 
the new citizen — ^if the change is to their own 
flag. But let a citizen of the United States 
shift his allegiance to any other government 
whatsoever, and a growl of resentment goes 
up across the continent. It argues a deep-set 
pride in the value of Americanism that no 
[ 16 ] 


THE COLORS 


excuse is accepted and that a whole nation 
takes it as a personal insult when an Amer- 
ican surrenders his birthright. 

Armstrong frowned. ‘‘There’s a screw loose 
if a man can’t be satisfied with his own 
country — especially this country. My word ! 
And the story goes that Vane is using Amer- 
ica as a workshop; that he will become an 
Englishman when he is rich enough.” 

“I don’t know about that,” doubted the 
admiral. “The papers! have been full of his 
buying the old family place in Virginia. Did 
you see that? Spending a gold-mine on it, 
it’s said. That doesn’t look like living in 
England.” 

“Oh, that’s merely a flier for a Croesus 
like Vane.” 

On the June afternoon when these officers 
of the navy, each living on a few thousand 
a year, discussed their former subaltern and 
his millions, a little girl in a riding-habit 
idled with her dogs down the long drive of 
a place outside a great steel city. A taxicab 
turned from the road into the stone gateway. 

[ 17 ] 


OLD GLORY 


The child watched. The taxi dashed by and 
she caught a glimpse in it of her father. With 
that, child and dogs scampered after the 
machine toward the house. 

The taxi stopped under the porte-cochere, 
and out jumped Jerrold Vane and dived into 
his pockets. The little girl was surprised. 
Father in a taxicab ! One of the cars went 
for father every afternoon. Something must 
have happened. With that Vane saw her. 

^‘Anne!” he called. 

Anne came running; the dogs barked ex- 
citedly, leaping about her. Vane seized her 
as dogs and girl arrived; then he held her 
oflf and gazed with an expression that seemed 
queer to Anne, as if he were gazing with 
other people’s eyes, appraising her. Little 
Anne summed up the look as ‘‘queer.” The 
new judgment did not find her wanting. He 
laughed aloud joyfully. 

“You’ll do, Anne; you’ll fill the place,” 
he cried; and then, his eyes full of laughter, 
“Honorable Anne Vane!” he threw at her. 
“How does it sound, chicken?” 

[ 18 ] 


THE COLORS 


Anne rippled a giggle. “Funny father! 
What does it mean? Is it nonsense?” she 
asked happily. 

There were wicker chairs with gay up- 
holstery and tables and bright summer rugs 
on the porch. Anne’s father caught her hand 
and ran with her around the corner. He 
dropped into a deep chair and drew the fif- 
teen-year-old girl to his knee. 

“Listen, darling,” he began. “A great 
thing has happened;' the greatest thing in 
our lives.” 

“Oh!” said Anne, wide-eyed. And then, 
delightedly: “Something about Wargrave? 
The horses — ^tell me, father !” 

Vane laughed again. “You’ll forget War- 
grave now, baby. This is something so won- 
derful that all America doesn’t count. We’ll 
sell Wargrave now.” 

She clutched his arm. “Sell Wargrave! 
Father ! And the horses — ^and the boats ! 
Father ! Oh, no ! Oh, no !” 

“Oh, well, we’ll keep it if you care about 
it,” agreed the millionaire easily. “But, frog- 
[ 19 ] 


OLD GLORY 


gie, a thing far more important than War- 
grave has happened to us, to you and me, 
to-day.” 

‘‘What, father?” 

Vane considered, drew the child close, and 
patted her shoulder. “Listen, Anne dear; it’s 
quite a long story.” Then he explained. His 
great-great-grandfather, the younger son of 
an English county family, had come over 
and settled in Virginia, at Wargrave, a hun- 
dred and fifty years before. For three gen- 
erations the Vanes had been rich and im- 
portant in America. Sixty years ago the war 
had ruined them and the estate had been 
sold. His father had put the boy, born after 
the war, into the navy as a good calling for 
a poor gentleman. Vane touched lightly on 
his naval experience; Anne did not know 
that episode; in a few words he told her of 
his fortune, one of the colossal fortunes, 
now, of America. Then: 

“All my life,” Vane said, “I’ve thought 
of myseh as an expatriated Englishman. 
All my life I’ve been sure that in going back 
[ 20 ] 


THE COLORS 


to England to live I’d find my real environ- 
ment. I bought Wargrave on the James 
because it seemed the obvious thing to do. 
and because it pleased my girl. But all the 
time I’ve thought that England would get 
us some day. And it’s got us!” He turned 
his face, radiant, and looked at the fresh 
face close to him. 

The girl’s eyes met his with a look which 
surprised him. ‘"Father! We’re Americans! 
I’m an American !” spoke Anne vehemently. 

Vane laughed and hugged her, but the 
slim figure was unyielding. 

“Father, I don’t understand. What else 
is it.^” she demanded. Anne had a character 
of her own; Vane knew that and gloried in it. 

“England’s got us, you young Yankee,” 
he threw at her. “The older branch of the 
Vanes has given out. The estates and the 
barony have come to me if I choose to take 
them. Baron Wargrave of Wargrave Abbey 
in England, I am.” 

He waited. There was a long silence. Then 
little Anne spoke tremblingly, deliberately: 

[ 21 ] 


OLD GLORY 


“I’ll have to go there if you take me. But 
I’ll never be English. I want our own War- 
grave on the James.” 

With that her arms were around his neck 
and she was sobbing into his shoulder. 
Swiftly she flung away and stood before him, 
boyish in her riding-clothes, a flame of a 
child. Words seemed to come from the young 
thing like lava from a volcano. She lifted a 
finger sternly. 

“Father, it’s awful,” she said. “It’s awful. 
A man that — ^that’s not loyal to his country 
— ^that’s terrible. You’re born to America 
just as I’m born to you, and you ought to 
want to do everything — everything for Amer- 
ica. You ought to want to give all your 
money, and your life, too, if it’s needed, for 
your country.” 

Vane laughed easily, pleased at this ex- 
hibition of spirit, quite unaffected by the 
substance of it. The child was like her South- 
ern mother, a fire-eater. Beautiful, too, like 
Anne Carter. He stared at the fresh little 
face. Her skin was creamy; her eyes were 
[ 22 ] 


THE COLORS 


black light; her eyebrows were like one 
stroke each of a cameFs-hair brush. He 
sighed; she was dear, dead Anne Carter’s 
own child; then he smiled. 

country, goose! All the world is his 
country to a cosmopolitan. Narrow patriot- 
ism is the hall-mark of the undeveloped. 
Moreover, if one must have a country, Eng- 
land’s mine. My ancestors were English; my 
name is English; I choose to be English. A 
mere accident stranded the Vanes over here. 
And now we’re going back!” he cried exub* 
tantly. ‘‘We’re going to live in a great land, a 
finished, sophisticated land,” he went on, 
talking more to himself than to the child, 
“where the machinery is oiled and the en- 
gine doesn’t rattle and the screws don’t drop 
out; where there’s a nation, a race — my 
race. Not a hodgepodge of the scrapings 
of the world. We’ll shake the dust of this 
cheap-built conglomeration of States off our 
feet and we’ll enter into our inheritance.” 
His eyes flashed into the sombre eyes of the 
child. 


[ 23 ] 


OLD GLORY 


“Father,” said Anne, “you make me hop- 
ping mad.” 

Vane grinned. “You’re a saucy little bag- 
gage,” he threw at her. “Moreover, your 
language is unsatisfactory. ‘Mad,’ my yoimg 
one, means mentally unbalanced. As you 
use it, it is an Americanism. What you mean 
is ‘angry.’ But you’ll lose that sort of thing 
when you hear only pure English speech.” 

“Father,” Anne went on, paying no at- 
tention to the digression, “what would you 
think of me if a — man should want to adopt 
me as his child, and he was richer than you 
and — and had pleasanter manners and — 
lived in a nicer place. And — and I should 
want to go and be his daughter because of 
those things? Would you respect me?” 

“Respect you?” Vane chuckled. “Re- 
spect you ? No, I’d spank you,” he answered. 
“And how could anybody have pleasanter 
manners than mine?” he inquired. “Drop 
those lordly airs and come and sit on my 
lap, baby, and we’ll talk about what we’ll 
do in England. Come, my precious!” 

[ 24 ] 


THE COLORS 


But the boyish figure held aloof; the brown 
eyes glowered yet. And Anne broke forth 
again and made oration. ‘‘Father, I had a 
history lesson this morning. Mr. Wheelock 
made a sort of speech — ^just this morning. 
He said how much we had to be proud of 
and to be grateful for because we are Ameri- 
cans. We have the Revolution to be proud 
of, George Washington, and those others 
who dared to fight a strong nation and were 



Vane sniffed. “England was tied up — 
continental wars,” he murmured. 

Anne went straight on. “ We whipped ^em,” 
she stated. “Mr. Wheelock said we should 
never forget, we Americans, that we had Val- 
ley Forge and Yorktown and King’s Moun- 
tain to be proud of. And the Civil War, and 
the soldiers on both sides, he said — ^Phil 
Kearny, and Grant, and Stonewall Jackson, 
and Lee. They were all Americans. He said we 
should be proud of ’em all. And our sailors — 
John Paul Jones, and Perry, and Farragut, 
and Dewey, and Clark of the Oregon — ^fa- 


[ 25 ] 


OLD GLORY 


ther!’’ The slim chest heaved with a thrill 
of patriotism; her eyes flamed. ‘'And thou- 
sands and thousands, he said, whose names 
we don’t know, good citizens who’ve loved 
the country and helped to build it just as 
really as the ones who died under the flag. 
He said we could, every one of us, do that, 
be good citizens — stand by the colors. That’s 
loyalty, he said. And I want to — ^father — 
be an American citizen — stand by my colors. 
We’ve got to; Mr. Wheelock said so; be- 
cause if we don’t America can’t grow to be 
as great as it could be. Everybody counts, 
he said. I can help — ^you can help a lot — 
father. And if we don’t help we’re — cowards 
— and renegades.” The last words came diflS- 
cultly, but Anne shot them like a shaft, her 
black gaze on her father’s face. 

The shaft went home. Vane sprang up as 
if the hit were physical. “Quite an indict- 
ment,” he said, “from one’s daughter ! ‘Cow- 
ard and renegade ! ’ Well, Anne,” he addressed 
her, “you’ll be good enough not to apply 
such words to me again. And you needn’t 
[ 26 ] 


THE COLORS 


report any more of Mr. Wheelock’s speeches. 
You are a child and don’t understand, but 
you will later. I shall do what I think best 
for you.” It came to him then, as it did al- 
ways when he was severe, that this was 
Anne Carter’s child. He bent and kissed her. 
‘Hn two years from now your point of view 
will be the same as mine, baby.” He swung 
away. 

Wargrave on the James was not sold. 
Caretakers were put ( in and the buildings 
were repaired and kept in order, and the 
James River rolled past the sloping lawn 
and the mansion, built of bricks brought 
from England a hundred and fifty years ago, 
and the patient old house waited, sunlit, 
silent, while across the ocean the girl grow- 
ing into womanhood thought of the place 
faithfully every day and said to herself often: 
‘'Some time !” 

The Thames trickled, a tiny brook for- 
ever just starting on its historic way, through 
the park at Wargrave Abbey. The splendid 
[ 27 ] 


OLD GLORY 


terrace with its stone and brick balustrades, 
its stone peacocks guarding the entrance of 
the steps, the wide steps dropping down to 
the sunken garden in flights through silken 
lawn, these things were in view of the sil- 
very baby Thames, tinkling through the 
trees, tinkling down to London. The gray, 
large old house lifted its complicated sys- 
tem of red-tiled roofs — ‘‘the most beautiful 
roofs in England” — into sunlight beyond the 
terrace. There were people all about, this 
afternoon of the 3d of July. Lord Wargrave 
had come down from London with a week- 
end party; the Abbey was kept full of people 
a large part of the year now, since the Ameri- 
can baron had come into the estate five 
years back. Miss Vane, it was said, liked the 
country better than London at its gayest. In 
spite of her beauty and money and social 
success, her tastes were simple. If it had 
not been for her father and his ambitions, 
it was said, she would have been happier to 
live always at the Abbey, flashing about 
country roads on a horse, running down 
[ 28 ] 


THE COLORS 


lanes with a crowd of joyful dogs around 
her, flying into cottages with friendliness 
and presents and laughter. The young Amer- 
ican lady of the manor was a popular person 
about Wargrave; not less popular, it seemed, 
because of her vehement Americanism; per- 
haps because of the presents, partly, but 
more likely because of the friendliness, the 
people liked her pretty faithfulness to her 
own land. ^ 

She had wandered down to the Thames 
after tea on the terrace this July day with 
an American, young John Grayson of the 
legation. knew you for a Virginian,” she 
said, looking up at the big boy. ‘‘Your 
speech — ^and your name — and you look 
Southern. You know, I^m an American — 
Virginian, too, really? Do you think — ^you 
donT think I speak like an Englishwoman ? ” 
Young Grayson smiled. “Nobody could ^ 
talk to you five minutes without knowing 
you for sure-enough American,” he pro- 
nounced heartily. And then: “Is Wargrave 
on the James any kin to you? It belongs to 
[ 29 ] 


OLD GLORY 


Vanes. I used to ride over there from home. 
It’s only ten miles.” He stopped at the radi- 
ance of the girl’s face. 

All England was forgotten; she was across 
the Atlantic, riding through quiet roads, sail- 
ing a sunshiny, broad river in the never- 
forgotten country of her love. This big young 
Virginian knew it better than she did. ‘‘I 
never was there but twice,” she said after 
eager questions. ‘Tt about broke my heart 
when this place and the title dropped on 
father’s shoulders and we had to give up 
going there to live. He was glad, yet I think 
he’s homesick at times, though he never 
owns it. But it’s the dream of my life to go 
home and live on the James River.” 

The boy’s gray eyes darkened with feel- 
ing. ‘‘Mine, too,” he said. “I’m pegging now 
for that. I’ve got it all scheduled — do my 
job here decently and get some small repu- 
tation; then home and a start there, and 
money enough before I’m forty, maybe, to 
go to Virginia and open the old place and 
specialize at something for a living and get 
[ 30 ] 


THE COLORS 


into the legislature, and then — ” He hesi- 
tated. '‘I don't know why I should bore you 
with my career, especially as I haven't one 
yet." 

‘‘Do," pleaded Anne. “It doesn't bore me. 
It's an American career. I love America. 
Then — what 

“You’ll laugh,” said the boy, “but the 
top notch of my dream is to be some day 
governor of Virginia. Three of my forebears 
were." 

“Why not.f^” demanded Anne. “Has any- 
body a better right to hope for it? And 
then, maybe. I’ll be living at Wargrave on 
the James, and I'll send a note beginning 
‘My dear Governor: Will you and Mrs. 
Governor — The girl stopped. 

The brown young eyes stared at the gray 
young eyes and the gray eyes held the 
glance. Unphrased, yet recognized, there 
was a false note somewhere; it might not be 
just like that, the gray eyes said; then the 
deep, boyish voice went on: 

“We’ll plan to see a lot of each other on 
[ 31 ] 


OLD GLORY 


the James River. I’ll put that in my sched- 
ule now.” 

^"But things aren’t looking very pleasant 
for dashing back and forth from England to 
America, are they.^” Anne asked, hesitating 
a little. 

And the young diplomat at once left oflF 
being a Virginia boy and became a young 
diplomat. ‘‘The mill-pond is in some respects 
a more lively mill-pond than it was,” he 
smiled down with non-committal geniality, 
and the girl smiled back and said no more 
about England and America. 

Up there on the terrace, however, around 
the tea-table, the subject had been brushed 
with a bit more reaction. Sir Everard 
Allen, the attorney-general, had motored 
down straight from Westminster and had 
arrived at Wargrave in a visibly surly tem- 
per, so that when Mrs. Northcote, who was 
pretty enough to carry off usually much 
flighty bromidity, made her ill-advised speech 
her prettiness for once did not save her. 

“Have you read the American note.^” in- 
132 ] 


THE COLORS 


quired Mrs. Northcote kittenishly. ‘'Don’t 
you think they are rather right about it, 
don’t you know?” Mrs. Northcote had a 
suitor from Pittsburgh and thought gently 
of things transoceanic. 

Sir Everard, teacup in hand, wheeled a 
slow gaze toward the bunch of frills. He 
turned livid. Everybody stopped talking. 
Everybody coincidentally moved his or her 
neck and stared where Mrs. Northcote flut- 
tered before that gaze of an angry lion. 

“Have I read the American note?” the 
attorney-general fulminated into the hush, 
and Mrs. Northcote gave a frightened giggle. 
“Yes, madam, I have read the American 
note. I have read the American note a num- 
ber of times since last night. Do I think 
they are rather right? ‘Rather right!’ That 
an Englishwoman can utter such a sentiment 
in a company of English people, in an Eng- 
lish house — an English house” — emphasized 
Sir Everard, who was fast working himself 
into ugliness — “is, to my mind, profanity — 
blasphemy — ^treachery to England,” elab- 
[ 33 ] 


OLD GLORY 


orated Sir Everard, "'The Americans, who 
care for nothing but dirty money— who are 
dirty money incarnate, taken as a whole — 
this yellow-skinned race of millionaires have 
seized the time when England is in mortal 
stress and fighting for her life to quibble 
about etiquette. It’s not much more than 
that, international law, etiquette. But, by 
Heaven” — ^the teacup went crashing to the 
floor and not a spellbound footman stirred. 
Sir Everard’s fist came down on the stone 
table — "by Heaven, if they think England 
is to be bullied because she is at war, Amer- 
ica will find out that we have more arms 
than one. An octopus will emerge.” 

The host of this gay tea-party, standing 
back of the circle of people who faced the 
attorney-general, had been listening to the 
thunder. If an observer had happened to 
look at Lord Wargrave he might have been 
astonished to see a face well-nigh as livid as 
that of the speaker himself. But at this 
point Lord Wargrave broke in with tones 
detached enough. 


[."J4] 


THE COLORS 


‘‘Sir Everard, the groom has that hunter 
of mine at the door.” He spoke quickly. 
‘"Come and see him — do; he’s a wonderful 
animal.” 

And with that everybody talked at once 
and people began to move about feverishly, 
and the tactful host was to be seen conduct- 
ing the late cyclone, and engaging him in 
rapid-fire conversation, around the corner of 
the terrace. I 

The horse was a good horse and was duly 
admired. “You must try him,” Lord War- 
grave said. “He’s well up to your weight.” 

“Thanks.” Sir Everard’s mind seemed 
not to be on the horse. He turned toward 
Lord Wargrave. “You’re going up to Lon- 
don to-morrow.^” 

“Yes.” 

“That’s right. I hope you’ll speak about 
this American affair. Your speeches tell. 
You’re a born talker, and as an ex-American 
you’re a marked man about this. It will be 
helpful to have you come out for our point 
of view.” 


[ 35 ] 


OLD GLORY 


Wargrave, standing with his face set, 
stared at the dancing horse. ^‘Take him 
away, Mullins,” he ordered. Then he put 
his hand in his pocket and drew out a folded 
white paper. ‘'I just got this telegram from 
the prime minister,” he said. The attorney- 
general opened it, read the few words aloud: 

‘"'I shall want you to talk Monday. As 
an ex-American you will have particular 
influence about the question.’ 

“Ah ! My idea,” said Sir Everard. “Then, 
of course, you’ll not fail.” 

“I’ll not fail to be there,” Vane answered 
slowly, and it was he in turn who seemed 
absent-minded. 

When the two parted to dress for dinner 
Vane took the turn at the head of the stairs 
which led to his daughter’s quarters. The 
door into her morning-room stood ajar, and 
he Imocked. No one answered. He pushed 
the door and it swung wide. The summer 
breeze rushed from a window opposite, and 
from over the girl’s writing-desk a big silk 
American flag, always there, flowed toward 
[ 36 ] 


THE COLORS 


Vane on eager air. It was as if it would wrap 
its vivid folds about him. Though he had 
seen it there a thousand times, the man 
sprang back. He put a hand out to the door 
as if he needed steadying. He was aware of 
a flood of feeling which choked him, some- 
thing in him reaching out for the colors 
there, not his colors. It struck him like a 
blow. What decency was there in such an 
impulse in an English subject ? Was he twice 
a ‘^renegade,’’ as child had called him 
on that day years ago ? With that he shrugged 
his shoulders. Midsummer madness, an early 
association, which had caught him unawares, 
had taken hold because of the uneasiness of 
his mind over the political situation; he flung 
off the obsession with an effort, and at the 
moment Anne came into the room. 

‘‘I wanted to warn you, darling, about 
young Grayson.” 

Anne’s look was startled. ‘‘About Mr. 
Grayson?” 

Vane, as he bent to kiss her, stopped and 
regarded consideringly. Then: “Simply to 


OLD GLORY 


keep him away from Sir Everard. Sir Ever- 
ard’s in an ugly temper and might make 
things uncomfortable/’ 

^'He will have uncommonly bad manners 
if he does, in this house, where I am hostess,” 
spoke Anne aggressively. And then: ^‘I’ll 
wear Old Glory” — she looked up at the flag 
— ‘Mown to dinner as a scarf if he isn’t 
careful. Just to remind him where I stand. 
And we’ll have eagles for decoration and 
lions for soup. I’ll teach Sir Everard some 
diplomacy,” said Anne, and nodded her head 
fiercely. 

“Silly baby ! You talk plenty of nonsense,” 
her father answered absent-mindedly, not 
smiling. “I only wished to drop a word to 
the wise about Grayson. You’ll be late for 
dinner if you don’t dress, froggie.” And he 
was gone. 

Late that night when the great houseful 
of people was asleep the master of the house 
swung up and down the gravelled path under 
the trees, and the little tinkling river ran 
by his side and murmured unendingly. For 
[381 


THE COLORS 


a week now, since the American ship had 
been stopped and the three men taken off, 
since the uproar that had followed the event 
in the two countries, Wargrave had been 
aware of a growing unrest in himself. Up 
to now, for these five years, he had consid- 
ered himself heartily English in view-point 
and sympathy. But the editorials in the 
papers, all anti-American, had irritated him 
unaccountably; he had found increasing dis- 
comfort in discussing the situation with Eng- 
lishmen, had been conscious of a barrier be- 
tween himself and his friends, and to-day, 
when the attorney-general had flung out 
black ferocity over Mrs. Northcote’s frivo- 
lous shoulder at all America, Vane for a 
second had seen red. All this had been 
controlled, certainly, but all this was an 
impossible attitude for an Englishman, for 
a man who was due to-morrow to throw his 
special gift of speaking, his special experi- 
ence, into the scale against America. A 
sick distaste of his affair crept over him as 
he thought how he must stand in the House 
[ 39 ] 


OLD GLORY 


of Lords and talk as a Briton for British 
interests. Up and down the gravel, by the 
whispering little Thames, he flung; back and 
forth, back and forth, and found no peace. 
Yet some physical exhaustion he found, and 
that served for a few hours of troubled sleep. 

Next day he motored to London, but the 
calm of the English country did not rest him 
as usual. His mind was seething with a 
premonition of a personal crisis to be faced, 
with a fierce rebellion against facing the 
crisis; all this was unformulated, yet settling 
inevitably into definite shape in the boiling 
caldron of his thoughts. He was a British 
peer; it was his duty as such to make a 
speech within a few hours advocating a 
course which might well mean war with 
America; it would be his duty to support 
strongly the policy of a quick blow while the 
unprepared government of the United States 
lay helpless. This he saw. And what he felt 
under the vision was longing to save, to 
help, to throw his life away for the country 
of his birth. He had not contemplated this 
[ 40 ] 


THE COLORS 


situation when he came across the water 
light-heartedly and laid down his American 
allegiance and took up allegiance to Great 
Britain. England and America had been 
friends for a hundred years, squabbling at 
times, as families do, but in all great things 
friends. Both were strong, prosperous; neither 
needed his millions or himself. He was free 
to choose where life seemed most interest- 
ing; he had chosen England. In a vague way 
he saw now that his scheme of life had never 
been to apply his powers where they could 
do work for the world, but only where they 
could evolve pleasure for himself. Glimmer- 
ingly he caught the shadow of an idea that 
this was a false theory; that satisfaction 
comes only from pulling at least one’s weight 
on the oars of the ship of progress. 

Vaguely he sighted these things, but the 
ocean that was slowly engulfing him was 
not of these things. It is not reason in the 
end that decides a crisis; it is character, in- 
heritance, the breaths we have breathed 
and the loves, the thoughts and memories 


OLD GLORY 


and sunsets and spring smells and familiar 
faces and city streets and autunm woods 
which have woven the fibre that is soul, the 
soul of us and of our people for generations 
back. A yearning for his own land, his own 
flag, swept down Jerrold Vane as a gale 
sweeps down a wood. America was in trouble; 
to a personality of the right stuff trouble is 
a trumpet-call; Vane, under many flimflams, 
was of the right stuff. On America in pros- 
perity and safety one might turn one’s back 
cheerfully. America in danger — ^how was she 
to be resisted.^ As he sped, alone in his car, 
over smooth English roads, between clipped 
hedges, through thatch-roofed, picturesque 
villages, past old, lovely manor-houses set 
back from stately stone gateways, past a 
castle or two looming in gray beauty, these 
things seethed in his mind. Other things were 
there in force also; the reverse of the ques- 
tion. This ordered charm of the English 
coimtryside meant much to him: it meant 
friends, splendid Englishmen, delightful 
women whom he liked; it meant interests, 
[421 


THE COLORS 


a sophisticated society which satisfied him, 
a finished environment not to be got in 
America. That point of view had, up to 
to-day, dropped the balance for Vane; to- 
day that point of view seemed, surprisingly, 
to have lost weight. Coming back again and 
again, like a seizure of pain, was a primitive 
human grip at his heart, the thought of a 
mother country across the water in distress, 
needing her sons, needing him. The grip 
wiped out in one throe towers of castles, 
sweep of smooth lawns, the groomed love- 
liness of England, the gay and large-hori- 
zoned and fascinating life which had seemed 
to him what was best worth while on earth. 
When the grip that was loyalty caught him 
it was as if all this little cosmos of his was 
nothing; perhaps as one goes through the 
gates of death some such thing happens. 
Some such grip of reality may strip off layers 
on layers of worrying about stocks and au- 
tomobiles and political honors and social 
and domestic responsibilities, and leave the 
bare soul conscious of just two or three big 


OLD GLORY 


facts — love, say, and faith, and eternal 
life. 

Vane, motoring to London, left by the 
wayside his world of jubilant detail and 
came to his town house floundering. There 
were two alternatives sticking out of an 
ocean — ^loyalty to England; loyalty to Amer- 
ica. What was he to do to win through.^ He 
had to find a foundation to set his feet on 
before he could speak — if he could speak — 
in the House of Lords. What was he to do? 
Was this merely an access of sentiment? 
Was he English or was he American ? It was 
important to know. 

He walked down through hot London — 
for this was the Fourth of July — thinking to 
steady his mind with physical effort. It was 
impossible, he said to himself as he started 
across Hyde Park, that he should so stultify 
his own career as to fail now at the first real 
test to stand by the country of his adoption. 
England had taken him in, given him of her 
best; moreover, as the boy officer had said 
on a memorable night twenty-five years be- 
[ 44 ] 


THE COLORS 


fore, was he not really an Englishman five 
times removed? And the heaviness of the 
man’s heart gave the boy’s theory the lie. 

With that, as he walked, there was a pond 
and children sailing boats; he halted to watch 
the pretty sight; boats and water had a 
charm for Vane always. He was conscious of 
a sudden thrill; one little white- winged 
schooner flew an American flag. And the 
English boats were ^butsailing her; the boy 
captain was scarlet, near tears; the young 
Britons jeered him cheerfully. Vane saw how 
the sails were wrongly set. 

^"Look here, my boy,” he said, and together 
they fished the craft to shore and sat down 
on the white stone steps and rearranged. 

He waited a moment till a breeze came 
and the toy fleet set to sea, and, behold, 
the American won the race! Vane laughed 
consumedly and the white-clad five-year-old 
came running. 

‘"Thank you,” he called. “Thank you a 
fousand times, sir. You and I are Americans, 
aren’t we, sir? Hurrah for America!” 

[ 45 ] 


OLD GLORY 


‘‘Bless your heart,” answered Vane, and 
walked on, and his heart was warm at the 
boy’s assumption. 

On the Fourth of July, in foreign countries, 
there is a reception for Americans at the 
house of the ambassador. Vane, walking down 
to Westminster, came to a great mansion 
and saw streams of cars speeding into the 
wide drive, caught a glimpse of young Gray- 
son, the secretary, the Virginian, jumping 
out of one of them. He looked up and saw a 
large banner of crude, bright colors floating 
above the house. Stronger than himself a 
feeling surged — ^that was his flag; these were 
his people; his place was with them. Why 
not cut this knot by turning into the hos- 
pitable door and telling his friend Gaunt, 
the ambassador, that he had come back to 
his own. He knew well what a welcome he 
would have. Ah ! — ^that was not the way; he 
knew that, too. He walked on, and as he 
walked the fog in his mind was clearing, the 
pressure was lightening. Yet even now he 
did not know that a decision was taking 
[ 46 ] 


THE COLORS 


form. ^^Odd how those colors catch me at 
every turn,” he spoke aloud, and wheeled, 
and looked again before he turned the cor- 
ner at the flag flying over the embassy. 

Five minutes later, as he came into Cur- 
zon Street, a barrel organ, half-way down 
the block, stood silent. As the grinder looked 
up and saw Vane on the hot, empty side- 
walk he scrutinized him for a moment and 
turned to his organ ^nd with that began to 
play. Something inside Vane jumped. He 
halted, listening to the rasping, alluring 
music. As he listened, words came, fitting 
their rhythm to each bar — words that his 
mother had taught him forty-five years 
ago: 

“Oh, say, can you see by the dawn’s early light ” 

The barrel organ seemed to grind out the 
words, seemed to bring back his mother’s 
voice. Vane stood, hearing that sound, long 
still. And the organ went on: 

“And the Star-spangled Banner, oh, long may it wave 
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave !” 

[ 47 ] 


OLD GLORY 


The barrel organ ended with a mad squeak: 
“ The Star-spangled Banner — the land of the free. ** 

Vane stood still in the street; he heard his 
mother’s voice; he saw visions. He came up 
to the man when the music was done. ‘^That’s 
a queer tune to be playing in London to- 
day,” said Vane. The organ-grinder squinted 
up at him — a very sordid, dirty organ- 
grinder, hot and tired, but cheerful. 

‘‘Me tak-a look at you, signor; you sure 
America-man,” said the fellow. 

“I American Guess again, my friend. I’m 
an English subject,” said Vane. 

“Me no think-a,” nodded the Italian con- 
fidently. “Me tell-a America-man, signor.” 

“Well, you’re a fine guesser,” said Vane. 

“O Marona!” brought out the organ- 
grinder. The thing that he was looking at 
in his hand, as Vane passed on, was not a 
shilling; it was yellow — a golden guinea. 

The street music gone like wine to his 
head. Lord Wargrave came to the abbey. 
He smiled absently at the men who spoke 
[ 48 ] 


THE COLORS 


to him; that to which he was listening was 
not their greeting; reeling with the conscious- 
ness of a crisis, what he heard over and over, 
as if shouted at him, was sometimes the 
rhythm only, sometimes the words of Francis 
Scott Key’s song, the song which sweeps hats 
off American heads and brings flippant 
crowds to reverent silenee: 

“Oh, say, can you see by the dawn’s early light 
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last 
gleaming?” 

Over and over the chorus shook him like a 
bugle-cry: 

“And the Star-spangled Banner, oh, long may it wave 
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave !” 

What a fool he had been ! A cheap fool ! 
How if two thousand years ago Caesar had 
given up his chance to save Rome because 
Rome was in dire need of saving ? If William 
of Orange had failed the Netherlands? How 
if all along history the great men, or the 
lesser citizens only, had deserted fatherlands 
in the making for an easier way ? As he had, 
[ 49 ] 


OLD GLORY 


the Lord forgive him, as he had. Where 
would be the proud memories of half of the 
nations of the world ? He had had the chance 
to help to weld a glorious, strong young na- 
tion, to do his bit of the trial and hardship 
and so be forever in the glory. He had thrown 
away his chance, but here was another; and 
he would take it. Good God! would he take 
it ? He trembled with eagerness. Humanity is 
so made that no matter if one loves all human- 
ity one must esteem more the hills and the 
rivers, the big cities and the country towns 
lying under some one flag. He realized that 
now. The colors which he had repudiated — 
they were his colors from now on. They had 
followed him like a pillar of fire last night, 
all to-day; they had gone before and led him. 
With a catch in his breath he remembered 
the great, bright flag flying over the em- 
bassy. He would follow the colors hereafter. 
So, the Stars and Stripes burning ventilation 
through and through him, Lord Wargrave, a 
British baron, walked into Westminster. 

In the House of Lords the American war- 
[ 50 ] 


THE COLORS 


cloud had filled the vast chamber. The lord 
chancellor was in his seat; the clerks were 
in front of him; the peers on either side on 
benches; the government at the right. Vane 
saw faces of friends everywhere. Among the 
spiritual lords sat the Archbishop of Canter- 
bury, whom he knew; there was a ruddy, 
well-upholstered bishop near, whose blue 
ribbon made Vane think vaguely of a prize 
ox. The rows of fresH-colored faces appeared 
to have a significance not before realized. 
“The last time; that’s it,” Vane explained 
to himself. His eye wandered on — dukes, 
viscounts, marquises. He knew numbers of 
them; he had cared about knowing them, 
about their titles; he had arranged that with 
himself by a theory that, being of fine clay, 
he had liked the finest. He looked about 
now — ^that was the Duke of Buccleugh, a 
good-looking name in print, historic, pic- 
turesque; the duke was a stiff manner of 
Scotchman, dry and dull, with a wen on his 
forehead. There was the Duke of Argyle — 
what a short little chap with red hair! The 
[ 51 ] 


OLD GLORY 


Earl of Barford — an average Harvard stu- 
dent by his looks; and the Duke of Bucking- 
ham and Chandos — all that title, and the 
man himself a picture of a successful New 
England country grocer! Were these really 
finer clay than men whom he knew in the 
United States? Many were of the best — he 
acknowledged that with a throb of pleasure 
as he thought of his friends, of the straight, 
clean Britons whom he knew. Yet — ^better 
than many at home ? Something in him said 
no, vehemently. Be that as it might, he was 
about to toss away all this hereditary para- 
phernalia for the sake of a square of bunting 
against the sky. He was thinking of it a 
moment since as rather a magnificent bit of 
surrender; now — was this the tremendous- 
ness he had dreaded? It was nothing; he did 
not care; he did not want titles, even the 
one he bore; he wanted his own land, the 
right to fight under his own colors; this 
foreign dignity and power might go with a 
turn of the hand. The situation was suddenly 
simple and easy. So a hill, lifting as a preci- 
[ 52 ] 


THE COLORS 


pice far down the road, flattens out and be- 
comes a mere pleasant slope as one comes 
close and sets his feet to climb the grade 
with a stout heart. 

Lord Wargrave, slight and boyish at fifty, 
dark and vivid, with eyes of swift intelli- 
gence, a man radiating the indescribable, 
unmistakable quality known as charm, lis- 
tened from his seat to speeches on the 
American situation. A member of the gov- 
ernment was speaking, a forcible, grave man, 
not witty or quick, but of weight. An effort 
was visible in his words to treat the situa- 
tion fairly. Wargrave realized it with swift 
gratitude. Yet, at the end, the stuff within 
him stiffened into iron; these were heart and 
soul Britishers. This earl was heart and soul 
ready, if need came, to conquer America! 
In his seat of a British baron the reborn 
American set his teeth hard. Another noble- 
man was on his feet now, and there was no 
effort at control in this man’s words, only 
vindictiveness for an enemy. Vane, listening, 
felt his blood hot to his toes, saw the scene 
[5S] 


OLD GLORY 


in a mist for a second, then laid hands on 
himself with strength. This was no time to 
lose one’s temper. 

Shortly after that access he found himself 
standing. He looked about the dignified 
array with an exhilaration at which, in a 
flash of introspection, he marvelled. It had 
never been difficult to Jerrold Vane to make 
speeches; always the act of getting on his 
feet had brought a rush of high spirits, of 
confidence in the friendliness of his audience. 
And his audiences had been friendly. He 
had talked to them as to sympathetic com- 
rades; they had responded, understood. He 
had influenced these very dukes and mar- 
quises and earls to his opinion more than 
once. But here was another affair; the 
thought of what he was about to say to 
these stately personages and the thought of 
his unfitting cheerfulness in saying it sud- 
denly jolted together in his brain, and be- 
fore he had spoken a word he laughed. There 
had been contagion in Vane’s ready laughter 
all his life; a smile sped like a sunbeam in 
[ 54 ] 


THE COLORS 


winter across the rows of grave faces; 
American Lord Wargrave was odd, of course, 
as Americans are, but a well-liked man. 

‘"My lords,’’ the American Lord War- 
grave began, “I came to-day to this chamber 
to make a speech of a sort; I am about to 
make a speech of an entirely different sort. 
In consideration of my position as an ex- 
citizen of another country, I hope that you 
will grant me forgiveness if I speak for a 


moment of myself. All my life long I have 
reverenced Great Britain; I still reverence 


her.” 


There was a comfortable settling into 
seats all over the place at this point; it was 
going to be agreeable enough to hear this 
clever ex-American eulogize England and 
show up that insulting upstart, the United 
States. The carrying, pleasant voice, with its 
allure of differing intonation, went on. 

“My lords, it is now five years since I 
came to this country of a lifelong admira- 
tion as one of its citizens. England has been 
good to me in these years. It has given me 


[ 55 ] 


OLD GLORY 


home, friends, work, and play, an experience 
which will hold my eternal gratitude. I be- 
lieve that, like Queen Mary and Calais, if 
one might read the writing on my heart 
when I die one would find spelled there 
‘England.’ This gratitude, that word, and 
the love of this country are engraved in my 
being. It is largely for that reason, then, that 
a prospect of England’s going to war with 
any coimtry appears to me proper to be 
avoided at every cost except honor. The 
prospect of this war impending with Amer- 
ica seems peculiarly dreadful. The two great 
English-speaking nations have been at peace 
for a himdred years; they are linked by 
friendship, business, blood. There is no 
hatred between them; there is inspiring com- 
petition, willing honor to variant good qual- 
ities, the play of imitation, that sincere flat- 
tery, back and forth. The interests of Great 
Britain and America are closely bound. 
There is some jealousy, some impatience 
with the faults of imlike temperaments, but 
of bad blood, none. It would be a black 
[ 56 ] 


THE COLORS 


crime against history if those in power sent 
out their bright lads to murder and mangle 
other bright lads, friendly lads all, with no 
wish to hurt each other. Every one here 
knows this view as well as I, yet it is possible 
that it looms higher in my scale of propor- 
tion than in another’s. Allow me to review 
what has happened.” 

For five minutes the affair of the Christo^ 
'pher Columbus was / stated in concise sen- 
tences, fairly, dispassionately, so that one 
listening might not have said if the narrator 
were English or American; yet to those lis- 
tening it seemed at the end of the statement 
that the affair was less crucial than it had 
before appeared. 

"‘I want no dishonor to England,” went 
on Lord Wargrave, ‘‘but I want no war. 
This affair can and should be settled by 
diplomacy, not fighting. But when I have 
done, you, my lords, may say that I have 
trespassed beyond forgiveness in setting be- 
fore you my views.” 

He stopped a moment and turned and 
[ 57 ] 


OLD GLORY 


gazed about the great room with a strange 
look, affectionate, sad, scrutinizing. 

‘‘For I have come,’’ Lord Wargrave went 
on, “to a parting of the ways. This day, if I 
would keep my self-respect, I must give up 
much that I hold dear.” 

A slight movement all about, a puzzled, 
intensified gaze of the eyes fixed on the 
speaker punctuated this sentence. The 
speaker went on: 

“I said just now that I had loved Eng- 
land; that its name will be found carved in 
my heart when I die; that I owe it undying 
gratitude. All that is true. In addition to all 
that, I have of late years held myself to be 
a loyal English subject. But — ” There was 
a stir of surprise, of shock, at that “but.” 
“But,” the easy tones continued, “within 
the last days I have gone through deep 
waters and have come to clear vision. Up 
to Wednesday, when the news of the Christo- 
pher Columbus affair reached us, I held my- 
self, as I just now said, a loyal British sub- 
ject.” 


[ 58 ] 


THE COLORS 


Throughout the Lords, at this, rippled a 
sensation. It was almost audible. The stir 
of stiffening bodies, of bristling heads of 
England’s aristocracy was audible. But they 
listened intently. The small, dark man, Lord 
Wargrave, spoke on. 

‘T am not that. I am not a loyal British 
subject,” were the astonishing words he 
spoke. 

And now an angry^ murmur met him; yet 
every man wanted to hear, too much to in- 
terrupt. Tense interest cut the murmur 
short. The tones of the first man who had 
ever, from a seat in the Lords, dared to 
make such an announcement fiowed on. 

‘‘I am at heart an American,” Lord War- 
grave stated. cannot help but be an 
American. At the first news that three citi- 
zens of the United States had been taken off 
the Christopher Columbus^ at the first edi- 
torials in the papers attacking the United 
States, at the first rumors of a possible war 
between the two countries, that fact, totally 
unsuspected by me, began to assert itself 
[59 1 


OLD GLORY 


within me. I was incredulous, horrified. I 
kept faith with my adopted country by a 
strain, against a force which I cannot trans- 
late into words. I have so kept faith until 
to-day, until this afternoon, until half an 
hour ago, until I was swept to the allegiance 
which I once disowned. It seems to me that 
then, within an hour, it happened as it hap- 
pened long ago to Saul of Tarsus. A light 
shone from heaven, as real a light as shone 
for him, so that I, as he, may not be dis- 
obedient to the vision. I have no better ac- 
count to give,” he said with simplicity, *‘of 
my rebirth than that I heard a patriotic tune 
which I was taught to reverence by my 
mother, and I saw the American flag. I knew, 
so, that I was American. Come what may, I 
am American. I shall let go the pleasant life 
in England which I have loved to the full, 
the associations of this House which have 
been a pride to me, a number of things de- 
sirable I shall let go with infinite regret, with 
entire certainty, because when a man sees 
right and honor before him he must follow, 
[ 60 ] 


THE COLORS 


through ice and flame he must follow, or 
lose the way/’ 

The voice, less calm, shaken a bit, yet 
carrying and assured, stopped. There was 
deep silence in the House of Lords. An old 
marquis near Vane, bent and wrinkled, 
blinked up and sighed. One heard that heavy 
sigh through the great place. Vane stood. 
There was something yet to say, it appeared. 
He smiled now, the charming smile which had 
won him friends. His tone became colloquial. 

‘'There is no news to tell England,” 
he said, “about American unpreparedness. 
Every schoolboy in London knows, likely, 
that the army of the United States is about 
twice the size of the police force in New York 
City, an army negligible as armies go to-day. 
The ammunition for coast defense would last 
a full half-hour. The British Government is 
doubtless informed with exactness how much 
the American navy lacks of strength and 
equipment and whether it stands third or 
fourth among the navies of the world. With- 
out question there is no secret about the 
[ 61 ] 


OLD GLORY 


stretches of our shore which lie open to an 
invader. Everybody is aware that New York 
is, as some one said lately, ‘as unprotected 
as a soft-shell crab, and as succulent.’” 

Vane’s fist shot out for the first time in 
the restrained course of his speech. 

“I know all about that, too,” he flung at 
his stately audience. “I know it, and in 
it I see my job. I am going — home.” He 
stopped and caught a hard breath as he 
brought out the word. “I’m going to throw 
every pound of every power I have, body, 
brain, and substance, into the work of arous- 
ing and preparing my country so that she 
may be ready to meet — ^not England — God 
forbid ! — ^but any power on earth. So ready 
that no power will be found to think it worth 
while to try the lists. I have a vision of my 
country” — his eyes gazed over the audience 
of hypnotized listeners, eyes dark, shining, 
yet keen — “as of a beautiful young mother 
going out in a gauzy costume into a hail- 
storm, confident and gay and foolish.” He 
straightened, flashed about a glance like a 
[ 62 ] 


THE COLORS 


blow. “Her sons will arm her and clothe her. 
They are to see to it. Now. Not later. One 
is not to risk — ^America. That’s my — ^job, as 
Americans say.” 

He looked once again, turning about to 
see farther, around the silent ranks of men. 

“My lords, I bid you^a grateful farewell,” 
he said. “I am reluctant to go from you, 
but I have my orders. There will be no war 
with the United Stages,” he flung out so 
decisively that it was like a jolt. “And I 
am going where I belong, to the Fourth-of- 
July reception for Americans at the American 
ambassador’s.” 

With a smile as of a happy boy who has 
done his work and runs to play, he wheeled 
toward the doors. For half a minute he 
passed in absolute stillness; then an Irish 
peer sprang up. 

“Man, dear,” cried Lord Killara, “’tis a 
brave deed ye’ve done, and ye’re right, and 
I honor ye. ’Tis loath to lose ye I am.” 

And with that they were crowding to him, 
speaking half sentences, laying strong arms 
[ 63 ] 


OLD GLORY 


about his shoulders, clutching his hands. 
Little like a reserved English gathering it 
seemed, but the difference in races is mostly 
the difference in the armor-plate. Pierce that, 
and in the best specimens of all races 
one imcovers forever certain fundamentals, 
among them the love for a gallant renuncia- 
tion. Jerrold Vane, who had made a speech 
once stating that there was no American 
nation and that the colors of America were 
a joke, who had just now made a speech 
tossing away all worldly advantages which 
he cared for, with no stronger motive than 
those same colors, stood in the midst of 
these Englishmen, behaving so un-Englishly, 
touched to the heart. 

‘‘No credit to me,’’ he threw at one. “I 
couldn’t help it — it was bigger than me”; 
and “You are wonderful people, you Eng- 
lish, you imderstand the cannon-sized feel- 
ings even when they fire from the other 
side”; and “By Jove, if you talk this way, 
you men. I’ll be coming back to British 
allegiance again.” 

[ 64 ] 


THE COLORS 


And then he had broken away and was 
plunging past Saint ^ Margaret’s, through 
London, up to the embassy. He walked fast, 
thinking hard, seeing nothing and no one, 
till at last around a corner he came in sight 
of a lordly house and over it a bright flag 
billowing. Vane stopped short; in his mem- 
ory rose a picture of five years ago, of a lit- 
tle girl with burning eyes standing stem 
amid the gay furnishings of a porch back in 
America, reading her father a lecture. He 
smiled as he remembered- Mr. Wheelock’s 
rehashed patriotism delivered hot and 
straight by Anne. He remembered very well 
most of what she had said; he was aware 
suddenly that the words had been in his 
mind many a time since. 

""‘A coward and a renegade,’ she called 
me. You got in your subliminal work, little 
Anne, didn’t you.f^” he considered. ^‘The 
shot took five years, but it has hit the bull’s- 
eye.” And with that there wandered across 
his mental vision, unaccountably, as it 
might be, a tall young man, John Grayson. 

[ 65 ] 


OLD GLORY 


And he sighed. ‘‘The mills of God grind 
slowly/’ said Jerrold Vane, staring at the 
embassy flag, “but, by Jove, they grind 
small. I’d picked Lord Sonning for her; he’s 
a nice boy, and mad about her; but it’s bet- 
ter this way. She’s Anne Carter’s child, and 
Anne was all American. America first!” 

Suddenly words of little Anne’s on that 
long-ago day flashed to him. His hat swept 
off, and, bareheaded in the streets of con- 
ventional London, his eyes, black and vivid, 
flamed up at the moving spot on the English 
sky. 

“I want to be a good citizen — I want to 
stand by my colors,” said Jerrold Vane, 
and he stood with his head bent as if he 
said a prayer. 


r 


166 ] 


/ 

THE STRANGER WITiHN THE GATES 






THE STRANGER WITHIN THE 
GATES 

T HE Lady of the House was doing a 
siesta on her sleeping-porch. May air 
touched her cheeks; country stillness 
laid a balmy hand on her nervous system; 
leaves rustled; squirrels rippled, brown and 
silver, up tree trunks; peace sifted over the 
earth. But her mind worked anxiously. Bill 
was still weak from typhoid, dependent on 
her; she did not want to go to New York. 
Yet how in this butlerless land could she 
replace Collins ? 

Grantchester grew no butlers — New York 
was the nearest hotbed for those exotics, 
and of the common or garden waitress of the 
country city she would no more. Still — ^Bill 
hated to be alone; he needed her; also she 
herself was tired with the siege of his illness, 
unfit for an effort like New York. With that 
she heard Bill in the garden, and listened to 
[ 69 ] 


OLD GLORY 


know if his voice sounded as if he had rested 
since luncheon. 

“These are weeds, this sort,’’ he was ex- 
plaining. “Pull ’em up. But this little pointed 
leaf — that’s a flower. See.^^” 

“Tha’s aw right-a. I see-a, Mr. Boss,” 
another voice answered, a confident, fresh 
young voice. 

“Good,” said Bill, and his tone sounded 
relieved. “You’re a great chap, Giulio; you 
do everything ‘aw right-a.’” 

To the Lady of the House a vision rose of 
Giulio’s grin; Giulio would walk a mile for 
a compliment. Then Bill’s words appeared 
to repeat themselves: “You do everything 
‘aw right-a.’” It was true; the young Italian, 
strong, quick-witted, willing, seemed able to 
turn an efficient hand to any work. He had 
entered their social circle as a hod-carrier 
on the new garage. The foreman had set 
him to casting cement blocks, and he had 
done it like an expert. Then he built stone 
steps down to the wild garden; then helped 
Bill transplant shrubs; on a day she had 
[ 70 ] 


THE STRANGER WITHIN THE GATES 

haled him into the house and set him to oil- 
ing floors; he had reeled off those floors like 
a dance. 

So here was the hod-carrier still on the 
place, doing odd jobs, so good at each that 
Bill would not let him go. Also his young 
strength seemed to buoy up Bill’s weakness; 
he was a manner of tonic; Bill liked him 
about. 

“You do everyt^iing ‘aw right-a.’” A 
thought sprang at her — ^the butler. Why not 
Giulio.^ The Lady of the House had often 
trained servants; it was her boast that she 
could make a good one out of poor material; 
here was good material. She slid her feet 
into slippers and pulled the rope of the 
green-and- white awning. “Bill!” 

He looked up — ^how white he was ! No, 
she would not go to New York. 

“Tell Giulio to wait while you come inside 
and speak to me.” She was down-stairs, push- 
ing Bill into a chair. “Listen,” and she told 
him. 

Bill smiled broadly. “Why, it’s crazy; but 
[ 71 ] 


OLD GLORY 


I don’t know. He’s a bright little cuss; he 
might do. If it isn’t too much bother for you.” 

''I can do it; anyhow I can try. You like 
him about; he’s mad about you; I’ll tell in 
two days.” She dragged him up, pushed him 
at the door. ""Go and ask him — quick.” 

A day later a compact, trim figure ap- 
peared in the dining-room and proceeded 
to put the whole of a good-sized intelligence 
on butler-ing. He learned in leaps and 
bounds, yet it was all of a week before he 
could be persuaded, for the love of Bill, not 
to serve the master before the mistress. And 
though, what time he was not circling the 
table with noiseless swiftness, he stood, arms 
at his sides, with the petrified correctness of 
n Britisher, yet there were incidents. 

/"I believe he’s making you well. Bill,” 
the Lady of the House considered delightedly 
when the invalid fell into a chair speechless 
and purple at the last incident that she had 
related to him. 

""Or else he’ll kill me,” Bill amended. 
""Tell that over.” 


[ 72 ] 


THE STRANGER WITHIN THE GATES 

“Why, you see,” she started in all over 
again gladly, “Alice Rice drove out for 
Jessica with her horse and trap. And she 
wanted to come in. So I rang for Giulio and 
he instantly stood in the door, solemn and 
stylish, with his little foreign bow and his 
feet tight together, and I told him to hold 
the horse, but to put on a heavy coat be- 
cause it was cold. And he reappeared with 
that insane, full-skirted, swashbuckling cheap 
overcoat, and on his head a little round 
knitted cap for a child of ten, with a little 
round button on top like the Grand Pan- 
jandrum. Well, they gasped, but I reserved 
my fire and went inside. Then, when^lhey 
went off, he came and stood close beside 
me, and snatched off that mad little cap 
and waved it, and shouted ‘ Goo’-by ! ’ cheer- 
ily in chorus with me. Oh, my!” finished 
the Lady of the House. 

“What did you do?’^ 

“Do.^ I had to take his most sacred feel- 
ings and trample on them. I had to tell him. 
It nearly killed me,” mourned the Lady of 
[ 73 ] 


OLD GLORY 


the House. ‘‘But you can’t have your but- 
ler butler-ing in a panjandrum cap and wav- 
ing farewells to your guests. They were flab- 
bergasted.” 

Bill patted his chest in appreciation of 
good laughter. “Raise his wages,” advised 
Bill. “We never had anything like this. I 
don’t care who’s flabbergasted. He makes me 
laugh.” 

Next morning, when the two were start- 
ing into town in the roadster, Giulio, after 
tucking them in like an efficient mother, 
shut the car door with a gentle snap and 
tossed up his hand fraternally. 

“Goo’-by !” called Giulio brightly, as man 
to man. 

And the car slid off, and the Lady of the 
House groaned. “I didn’t make a dent in 
him,” she said. “I’ll have to teach him 
manners some more. I loathe teaching man- 
ners.” 

Bill grinned. “Don’t bother,” he said. 
“He’s quick. He’ll get the idea by his own 
road.” 


[ 74 ] 


THE STRANGER WITHIN THE GATES 

But the road of Giulio seemed devious. 
He did his work wonderfully; but the theory 
that he was, including some agreeable du- 
ties, on a pleasant visit to the family — ^that 
theory, when pushed in at one point, popped 
out at another. 

The Lady of the House on a day in- 
structed him in the doctrine that one may 
without sin be in the house and yet reported 
at the front door as ‘/not at home.” Giulio’s 
keen face smiled broadly. “You see what I 
mean ? ” 

“Oh, tha’s aw right-a. That-a no hard-a 
see. I tell-a lie myself some-a time,” Giulio 
responded with comradeship. 

It seemed useless to go into ethics. “There 
comes a car up the drive now; I’m just 
going out; I can’t see anybody. Remember 
I’m ‘not at home’”; and the Lady of the 
House fled. 

Giulio regarded the flight sarcastically. If 
one was not at home, why hide.^ Then the 
bell buzzed, and he flashed the door wide 
open with delightful correctness of manner; 

[ 75 ] 


OLD GLORY 


the Lady of the House, from cover, rejoiced 
in that finished manner. 

'‘Is Mrs. Abercrombie at home?’’ a voice 
inquired. 

She listened for the result of her training. 

"Well-a,” answered Giulio in social and 
democratic tones, "she claim-a she ain’t.” 

And well the Lady of the House knew 
that the voice she had heard would repeat 
that tale down a far-flung battle-line. 

"Bill,” she announced, repeating it herself, 
"I’ve got to let him go. He breaks out some- 
where unexpected each time. He’s so darned 
versatile.” 

"But he’s a corking servant!” remon- 
strated Bill. "Quick and quiet; forgets noth- 
ing. Try him again, dearie.” 

And "dearie” tried him. And one after- 
noon Mr. Shepherd came, a learned profes- 
sor of a madman’s beard, of shocking bad 
clothes. 

The Lady of the House, in dressing-gown 
and cap, listened at the top of the stairs as 
Giulio tripped to the door. Was it a book 
[ 76 ] 


THE STRANGER WITHIN THE GATES 

agent? The painters? She had planned a 
ride. Giulio was half-way up-stairs. Whoever 
it was must be safe in the library, out of 
hearing. ""Who is it, Giulio?” Giulio shook 
his head. ""Is it a gentleman?” inquired the 
Lady of the House, lifting her voice a trifle 
in her interest. 

Giulio turned and regarded careftdly be- 
low, turned back. ""No,” shaking his head 
firmly; ""no gentlapian.” 

And from the hall beneath rose offended, 
deep accents: ""It’s Mr. Shepherd, Mrs. 
Abercrombie.” 

""Bill, if he does anything awful once 
more, he goes.” 

""He’s useful to me,” reflected Bill. ""Never 
forgets my milk punch; gives me my tonic 
after every meal; sees that I have the right 
overcoat mornings. He’s been a perfect 
nurse. Don’t settle it quite yet,” pleaded 
Bill. 

And it was Giulio himself, unexpected as 
always, who settled it next day. ""I’m-a ver^ 
sorry,” he explained. ""I got-a go.” 


OLD GLORY 


‘‘‘Why, GiuHo?” His virtues rose in a 
phalanx and stood before her. Blessings cer- 
tainly do brighten. 

Giulio made a graceful alien gesture. “I 
don’t-a know how say-a. I can no be happy 
inside-a house. I get-a sick. I need-a my 
pick; hard-a work — out-a-side. No right for 
me, eas’ work. I too strong-a, I get-a sick.’’ 

And the Lady of the House, regarding the 
deep, broad shoulders, regarding also his 
color, which had lost brightness, realized 
that wild creatures need their environment. 

The next they heard of Giulio was six 
months later. A strange-looking letter was 
brought into the library by the supercilious 
gentleman from Merry England then reign- 
ing. It looked worn and humble on the silver 
tray, presented disapprovingly. 

Bin opened it gingerly. “What the deuce !” 
and then he let loose a shout of laughter and 
passed the paper across. 

“‘Dear sir,”’ the Lady of the House read, 
■“‘with pleasure, will you lend me $4.90 to 
pay my own rent ? ’ ” 


[ 78 ] 


^ THE STRANGER WITHIN THE GATES 

‘'Who brought it?'’ Bill demanded of 
’Merry England. 

“A sort of — a common working man, sir. 
I hunderstood 'im to say 'is name was" — 
a discreet pause, a slight cough — “Julia, 
sir." 

Bill caught the laugh. “Bring him in." 

Judge Carlisle had been dining at the 
house, and to him they gave a quick resume 
of the case. ^ 

Then Giulio, a bit pale and underfed, in 
the same old swashbuckling, thin overcoat, 
twirling the panjandrum cap, swaggered 
smiling in, stopping at the threshold to make 
his low, foreign bow. “Glad-a see-a you," he 
greeted them, and shook hands uninvited. 

He told his hard-luck story quite simply. 
“Work hard-a get. I get-a job on house," he 
stated. “Then house finished; I get-a job 
on dig park. Boss lay off all men on that-a 
job. Then I go peddl-a fruit." He shook his 
head. “No mon' that-a job. Something bad-a 
wrong. I want-a work; no get-a work; boss 
no pay too enough anyhow." 

[ 79 ] 


OLD GLORY 


"'Sorry you didn’t stay as our butler?’^ 
inquired Bill. 

Giulio showed his white teeth. "No, Mr. 
Boss. Not-a sorry. I couldn’ be bottela again, 
any house, not for one hundred doF a month. 
Not-a right for me inside-a house.” 

"Well, Giulio,” said Bill, "I’ll have to lend 
you $4.90.” He took out a ten-dollar bill. 

"This much-a more,” Giulio pointed out, 
with one of his sharp looks. 

"That’s all right; you’ll pay me back some 
day when you’re rich. And look here: come 
into my office and I’ll see about getting you 
a job.” 

Suddenly they saw a new Giulio. Color 
crawled up his thin cheeks; the dark, keen 
eyes filled and a tear rolled suddenly. "I 
not-a forget,” he brought out. "I poor man, 
but I find-a way do something for Mr. Boss. 
I get-a my papers; be American citizen. 
When I get-a that I get-a good place. I pay 
back.” 

"When do you come up for naturaliza- 
tion?” 


[ 80 ] 


THE STRANGER WITHIN THE GATES 


Giulio turned and made the judge a re- 
spectful bow. "‘Next-a June, Mr. Sir.” 

‘‘That’s before me,” said Judge Carlisle. 

“This is the judge,” explained Bill, “who 
will make you an American if he thinks 
you’ll be a good citizen.” 

This time the bow was reverential. “I be 
splendid-a citizen, Mr. Judge,” Giulio as- 
sured the Power earnestly. 

“Good,” commented the judge. “Send in 
your name to me and I’ll try to take care 
of you.” 

For a time one heard no more of Giulio. 
Then in the spring came a period of trouble 
for employers of day-laborers. A strike 
of hod-carriers was threatened; contractors 
were nervous; there were columns about it 
in the papers; there were groups of foreign 
men on street corners. Workmen repairing 
trolley tracks were guarded; a negro laboring 
on a barn was chased and ran for his life; the 
town was distinctly uncomfortable. With 
that the strike was on; building was held up, 
and one morning there was a riot in Cathe- 
[ 81 ] 


OLD GLORY 


dral Square. Policemen used clubs, a shot 
was fired, an oflScer hit. The police, mad- 
dened, whipped out revolvers, and when the 
battle was over one Italian lay dead and 
two were wounded. 

Bill telephoned from town sheepishly: ‘T 
canT be home for luncheon; nor yet dinner. 
The mayor has called out the troop. All 
tommy rot; but, being troopers, we have to 
go." 

The Lady of the House jeered: ^"ThaPs 
the joy of your old National Guard. Go on 
and ride horseback down Main Street for 
your country, my hero.” Then she hurried 
off to the Country Club to play in a golf 
sweepstakes. There was plenty of excitement 
for three hours. But, as the thirty women 
trooped in to tea, Margaret Abercrombie 
was aware of her complete seizure by a feel- 
ing which had been nibbling at her soul for 
at least two hours. It was easy to jeer at 
Bill, but where was he? In danger, maybe? 

The women laughed over the joke it was 
on the men to leave oflSces and homes and 
[ 82 ] 


THE STRANGER WITHIN THE GATES 


camp out at the armory. They laughed; but 
which of them owned a Nobody. That 
was her unique privilege, bringing its draw- 
backs — this maddening anxiety for one thing. 
He might be in danger; the women would 
laugh; it was the pose to pooh-pooh the 
strike. But an Italian lay dead; a policeman 
was at the point of death. There might have 
been another fight while she wajs knocking 
balls into bunkers. /And the dub telephone 
out of order — of all days ! 

. ‘‘No; no tea; I’ve got to get home.” She 
hurried to the little roadster, buried in a 
double line of cars, and backed, and whirled, 
and spun off, whining on second, up the hill 
from the dub. In twelve minutes she was 
in town — and, behold ! Harold Anderson 
sauntering. 

She put on the brake and slid into neutral. 
“Want a lift.^” Then, as he climbed in: 
“I’ve been out at the club and the tele- 
phone’s broken. Any news about the strike ? ” 
she asked casually. “The troop doing any- 
thing.^ Or Company F.^^” Not that she cared 


OLD GLORY 


a whoop as to Company F, only one must 
include the infantry if one is posing as 
patriotic. 

Harold smiled sarcastically, and she gath- 
ered that she might exactly as well have 
shrieked at him ‘‘How’s my Bill.^^” and let 
it go at that. “Don’t be anxious,” reassured 
Harold. “Bill’s hearty and the coimtry is 
saved. The cavalry have been eating sand- 
wiches in the police station all the afternoon, 
and the infantry are dashing through town 
in taxicabs; so everything’s all right.” 

“And you won’t be home to-morrow.^” 
(Bill was telephoning from the armory that 
night.) 

“Not by several yards,” came back. “The 
mayor’s crazy about us; going to keep us 
to play with — a year maybe. Did you see 
us parade? Well, you ought. We’re some 
soldiers, and we’re having a moral effect, 
don’t you know — ^the ‘Man on Horseback’ 
and that stuff. The joke of it is the strikers 
like us; they wave their hands and grin; got 
an idea we’re with them against the police. 

[ 84 ] 


THE STRANGER WITHIN THE GATES 


Oh!” — ^Bill could be felt to jump, through 
the telephone — '‘Gosh! I forgot to tell you; 
who do you suppose is the king-pin ? Giulio. 
You’ll see his name in the papers. He’s an 
orator; handles the whole bunch. He didn’t 
begin the game, but he’s come to the front, 
and now they’ll do anything he says.” 

"Huh !” responded the Lady of the House 
absent-mindedly. "How queer ! What kind of 
a room have you.^^’ 

Bill was to be heard laughing gently three 
miles away. "Room.^^ Al; the main room 
up-stairs.” 

"What.^ Not all to — ” she stopped. 

"Possibly not; a matter of fifty others. 
I’ve reserved a luxurious corner behind the 
piano. 

"BeAznd the piano,” in a manner of squeal. 
"You — ^sleeping behind a piano! What sort 
of a bed?” 

"A bag filled with straw by my lily-white 
hands.” 

"Oh, Bill!” mourned the widowed one. 
"And you not strong from typhoid! You 
[ 85 ] 


OLD GLORY 


that have to have things exactly right, or 
you can’t sleep a wink ! You’ll be ill, Bill; 
you’ll ” 

‘‘Heavings, child!” cut in an irritated 
voice, ‘‘do you take me for a wax doll? I’m 
all right and perfectly comfortable. I’ve got 
to go and rub down my horse now, and then 
seek my downy, because we’re up at four- 
forty-five. Good night.” 

One got an hour’s furlough or so at times. 
Coming out of the armory on such an occa- 
sion there rose up Giulio. 

“Good-a morning, Mr. Boss.” 

“Hello, Giulio! How’s business? Why 
don’t you call off your strike and let us go 
home? I’m tired of sleeping under a piano.” 

The beaming face turned serious. “ What-a 
say, Mr. Boss ? You sleep under pian’ ? That-a 
joke?” 

“Not much, it isn’t a joke.” Bill stuck 
his hands in his pockets and enjoyed Giulio’s 
expression. 

“You got-a nice bed, eh?” inquired Giulio 
further. 


[ 86 ] 


THE STRANGER WITHIN THE GATES 


“If you call a bag of straw on the floor a 
nice bed, I’ve got that.” 

The aquiline dark face was shot with 
lightnings. “Mr. Boss, I no have-a you got-a 
do like that. You get-a sick. All right-a my 
sort of man. I do like that-a much time. But 
you got-a always pink cov’ out-a silk. You 
no can sleep on straw bag. No. All right-a 
me maybe, but you ^ucation boy; you get-a 
sick.” ! 

“Hope not,” opined Bill, and was going 
on when Giulio halted him: 

“Mr. Boss, I want-a see capitan-man.” 

“Can’t be done.” 

Giulio stuck a confident tongue into his 
cheek and nodded. “Tha’s aw right. I guess-a 
can be done. I guess-a I do it.” 

“All right, then. Do it.” 

Giulio was right. In his bright lexicon there 
was no such word as “can’t.” He saw the 
captain; not, indeed, at the armory, but by 
efficient trailing he saw him. Sunday morn- 
ing the captain went to church, glorious in 
uniform, according to regulations, and es- 


OLD GLORY 


corted by six troopers, also glorious. Across 
the street a short, dark man watched the 
congregation pour out. He bided his time 
while the captain talked, a bit eagerly, with 
the prettiest girl in town, whom he had not 
seen, lo ! this week. Then, as she gave him a 
last flash of friendly eyes and dimples, Giulio 
seized the psychological moment and was 
touching his hat in his most respectful and 
winning and Giulioesque manner. Few re- 
sisted that quaint charm when Giulio turned 
it on. 

The radiant captain smiled benevolently. 
A swift river of broken English; a bewildered 
look and a question from the captain; more 
fluent language; then the captain threw back 
his head and roared with laughter and 
wheeled and went away down the street, 
while Giulio set his white teeth in a snarl 
and clinched his fists. 

With that he whirled. The girl with the 
dimples was visible two blocks away; Giulio 
set off at a lope. The girl turned at a touch. 
The panjandrum cap swept off. 

[ 88 ] 


THE STBANGER WITHIN THE GATES 

''Missis/’ spoke Giulio, ‘'you capitan’s 
woman ? ” 

"No.” The girl flushed indignantly. 

"You his girl.^^” persisted Giulio. 

"iVo.” But there was a deeper flush. 

Giulio was no fool. Immediately he made 
oration, complicated, excited oration, but in- 
telligible. He informed the girl with dimples 
that she was on no account to marry the 
captain; that he was a bad man; that he 
ground the face of his troopers, especially 
such as were ill; that he, Giulio, was going 
to be revenged on that captain and very 
lilvely kill him. 

To all of which the girl listened, petrified. 
And she went home shivering, and forced 
an unwilling brother to telephone the cap- 
tain to guard against a short, broad-shoul- 
dered Italian. 

"A darn-fool message,” commented brother. 
"No wonder he laughed at me.” 

"Abercrombie,” spoke the captain when 
he got back to the armory, "the strikers 
have got a new clause. Not only a raise of 
[ 89 ] 


OLD GLORY 


twenty-eight cents per, but now they de- 
mand a pink silk quilt for you and a brass 
bedstead behind the piano.” 

"^What.^” growled Bill; and then: ‘‘Giu- 
lio.?” 

‘"Is that his name.^ He threatened me 
with trouble right away quick if I didn’t 
stop persecuting you with the lack of a pink 
quilt. He said you’d ‘get-a sick.”’ 

The trouble came in an unexpected and 
childish shape. Bunty Southern, doing sen- 
try duty that afternoon, observed an Italian 
in the small park facing the armory. He 
watched. The short, powerful fellow tore 
open a package and unfolded a good-sized 
American flag. Bunty watched more ear- 
nestly. The Italian opened it on the ground, 
and with that sprang into the middle of 
the Stars and Stripes and began a mad 
dance of insult embellished with shouts and 
varied with spitting. It did not take Bunty 
long to decide the law as to such practises. 
With a howl he was on the man and had 
dragged him from the colors before two 
[ 90 ] 


THE STRANGER WITHIN THE GATES 


other troopers who had seen the perform- 
ance arrived to help hand the sullen Giulio 
over to the police. 

‘‘Judge, do you remember a little Italian 
at our house in the winter?” inquired Bill, 
meeting Judge Carlisle in the street next day. 

“Surely,” said the judge, “a winning lit- 
tle chap with a fine head. Was due to come 
before me at the June naturalization court.” 
Bill told the flag ep/sode. “It bothers me,” 
said he. “It happened because of me. He 
got sore because he thought the captain was 
handing me undue hard treatment. He was 
with us when I was getting over typhoid 
and was pampered. And the captain laughed 
at him. None of those wops can stand being 
laughed at, and I don’t blame them much. 
They don’t get our curves, and they’re be- 
wildered and insulted. I suppose there’s 
nothing a man could do about it?” 

The judge reflected. “It’s a pity to turn a 
good citizen into a firebrand for lack of 
straight talk,” reflected the judge. “I’ll have 
him brought to me and see if I can handle it.” 

[ 91 ] 


OLD GLORY 


Next morning a pallid Giulio with a set 
face was shown into Judge Carlisle’s private 
oflBce, and the door was shut. 

‘‘Sit down,” commanded the judge, not 
glancing up, and went on writing. 

Giulio sat meekly on the edge of a chair 
in a remote spot. The great desk was cov- 
ered with papers; the room was large; there 
were thick, bright rugs, deep chairs, pictures; 
to Giulio it was a place of splendor and awe. 
The judge snapped together his fountain 
pen, looked up, smiled. 

“Take this chair,” ordered the judge with 
friendliness, and Giulio, humble, threadbare, 
defiant, approached the throne. “Giulio,” 
began the judge, “do you remember me.^” 

“Yess, Mr. Judge.” Giulio was on guard. 

“You trust Mr. Abercrombie.^” One had 
to explain here what “trust” meant; Giulio 
nodded emphatically. “Well, I’m his friend. 
I’m talking to you for him.” 

“He know-a.^” inquired Giulio. 

“Yes. Now, tell me why you did that to 
the fiag.” 


[ 92 ] 


THE STRANGER WITHIN THE GATES 

And Giulio, in impassioned gibberish, told 
why; the desire to ‘‘make-a something bad’^ 
to the ‘‘capitan-man” was the main point. 
^‘He laugh-a at me. I afraid Mr. Boss get-a 
sick. He been-a sick, Mr. Judge. I try tell 
capitan-man take care him. I ver^ polite, but 
capitan-man laugh. I poor man; I Italia fella; 
I talk-a not ver’ good the English. He laugh. 
Then I get ver’ mad and I think what to 
make-a capitan-man/ crazy. So I jump on 
flag/’ 

^^You forgot it was Mr. Abercrombie’s 
flag, too, didn’t you ? ” Giulio wriggled. The 
judge went on, trying to put things at their 
simplest. ‘‘You are coming before me in 
June to become an American. If I let you in 
that flag will be yours. What do you think 
a man ought to do for his flag ? ” 

“Die for it,” Giulio stated quite simply. 

“Yes.” The judge caught a quick breath. 
“And if he doesn’t have to die for it he 
ought to take care that everybody treats it 
with respect.” 

Judge Carlisle swung about in his swivelled 


OLD GLORY 


chair, moved a volume which lay open on 
his desk, and proceeded to read from it. 
‘‘‘Penal Law, Section 1425, subsection 16,’” 
the judge read. ‘‘‘Any person . . . who 
shall publicly mutilate, deface, defile or 
defy, trample upon or cast contempt, either 
by words or act, upon any such flag’ — ^that’s 
the American flag,” the judge explained. Lift- 
ing grave eyes — “‘shall be . . . punished by 
a fine not exceeding one hundred dollars, or 
by imprisonment for not more than thirty 
days, or both, in the discretion of the court.’ 
Do you understand what I have been read- 
ing to yoti.^” 

Roughly Giulio did; his eyes bulged. 

“Do you understand that Americans pro- 
tect their flag.f^” 

Giulio nodded with emphasis. “Tha’s aw 
right,” he agreed; “when I get-a American 
citizen I maul a fella good if he touch it; 
like ” — Si slow grin permeated — “soldier-man 
maul me. I imderstan’ now. Nobody ever 
talk-a me that way before. Bad thing jump 
on flag. Anyhow, flag no laugh at-a me be- 
cause I poor Italia fella.” 

[ 94 ] 


THE STKANGER WITHIN THE GATES 


‘‘The captain” — Giulio’s face set — “did 
not laugh at you because you were Italian. 
He would have laughed at Mr. Abercrombie 
just the same.” With that the judge eXr 
plained deftly how soldiers must rough it; 
how Mr. Abercrombie, though of the nobil- 
ity, was a private in the troop. He made 
Giulio laugh with the captain at Giulio’s sug- 
gestions about a bed. He drew the sting. 

Then there was / something yet on the 
judge's mind. “When you come before me 
in June,” he said, “if you show that you 
mean to respect the flag and” — the judge 
cleared his throat — “are ready to die for it, 
then I shall probably let you in. But — ^you 
know this is a large country.^” 

“Yess, Mr. Judge.” The keen, dark eyes 
were attentive. 

The judge felt a responsibility, as if for a 
thronging multitude of new citizens clamber- 
ing to gates which he guarded. “You know 
that it's hard to manage a large farm.?” 

“Yess, Mr. Judge,” a bit bewildered. 

“Sometimes the workmen are lazy, or 
make mistakes ? ” 


[ 95 ] 


OLD GLORY 


^‘Yess, Mr. Judge.’^ 

‘‘ Then it’s much harder to manage a large 
country. Things go wrong sometimes. We 
have to be patient, and wait, and try to help 
our country by obeying the laws. It’s a new 
country yet, and big, and we all must help — 
you and I — everybody. Do you see.^” 

^'Yess, Mr. Judge,” with emphasis. 

But the judge was not through yet. ‘‘You 
are a leader in the strike.^” 

Giulio was wary again. “ Yess, Mr. Judge.” 
“They say you are their best speaker 
“I make-a splendid speech, Mr. Judge.” 
“You do, eh.^ Well, Giulio, I’m going to 
have you let out of jail. I don’t think you’ll 
ever insult the American flag again, eh.^” 
“No, Mr. Judge. I, no, never. I mash-a 
any fella face in what touch-a that-a flag.” 

“Oh! all right,” agreed the judge. “And 
now” — ^impressively — “when you get) back 
to your friends, remember that this is going to 
be your country, and that you must try 
to take care of it and be patient and not 
make trouble, so that you may feel some 
[ 96 ] 


THE STEANGER WITHIN THE GATES 


day that you, Giulio Bianchi, have done 
your part to make it the greatest country in 
the world.” 

Giulio grinned cheerfully, then rose, shook 
hands — unasked — cordially with the judge, 
and was a free man. 

The strike went on. The troop and Com- 
pany F were still on duty; Bill still slept 
under the piano. Giulio Bianchi, the papers 
reported, had made (no incendiary speeches 
since his arrest; it was thought that he was 
preparing a coup; it was certain that he was 
yet the young Napoleon of the movement. 

Suddenly, on a morning, the troop was 
called to arms, and trotted, businesslike, to 
Cathedral Square. A contractor had imwisely 
set men to work on a building, and the 
strikers had gathered. Above the horses’ 
hoofs one heard, two blocks away, the sibi- 
lant, low threatening of the angry crowd. 
The police, menacing, remembering their 
dead comrade, tried, roughly enough, to 
scatter them. 

The troop arrived. An order or two barked 
[ 97 ] 



OLD GLORY 


out. They stood in still ranks, men on horse- 
back, the most quieting sight in the world 
to a mob. A hush came suddenly on the 
dense ferment; the angry, rapid talking was 
all still at once. And with that, ten feet from 
him in the shifting crowd. Bill saw Giulio. 
He caught one flash of the keen, brilliant 
eyes smiling into his, and then he saw 
the broad shoulders shooting through the 
pack; Giulio was making for the court-house 
steps. 

A wide wall ran out at the side of the 
steps; ran into the heart of the mob pushing 
up the steps. Giulio was out on that platform 
with incredible quickness, yet only just in 
time, for the mob was growing restless 
again. 

The Italian tossed out an arm and a shout 
went up. The police, frowning, loosened pis- 
tols in their holsters. He stood a second, 
smiling, cock-sure, holding the mob in the 
hollow of his hand; his quick eyes flashed 
triumphantly to where Bill sat his horse, 
staring open-mouthed at his ex-butler. Then, 
[98 1 


THE STRANGER WITHIN THE GATES 


in a strong, sharp-edged voice, in his own 
tongue, he made a speech. The crowd swayed, 
gasped, under the pouring words. 

At the end he put a swift question; waited; 
then dived under his shabby coat, and out 
from his hand rippled gay colors: the flag of 
America, over the mob of aliens; the colors 
that work the magic of assimilation; the 
Stars and Stripes. Ai^d up from the crowd 
came a great, hoarse roar. 

With that Giulio turned to face the judge 
standing bareheaded behind him. Off swept 
the panjandrum cap; he made his pretty, 
foreign, low bow, and smiled — confident, 
vainglorious, the flag yet in his hand — ^into 
the judge’s face. “They all-a good boy now,” 
he stated. “We talk-a contractor this after- 
noon. We get-a togeth’. I tell ’em we all got 
be patient with our countree; we be good 
citizens for our flag. I get-a my people here 
to-day just show you and Mr. Boss what I 
can make do. Giulio big man. We all go be 
American. Tha’s aw right. You tell me I be 
good citizen, Mr. Judge. You pretty wise-a 


OLD GLORY 


guy. I tell ’em my peopl-a. I show ’em our 
flag." 

With an impetuous movement he whirled 
to the cheering crowd, and flung out the 
flag, and the two stood together under the 
beloved colors, living symbols — the judge, 
the law of the land, and the land’s vital 
problem, the Stranger Within the Gates. 


[100 1 


THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER 



THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER 


W HEN Roger Shelby, of Kentucky, 
died in London, his son, little 
Roger, was two-and-a-half years 
old. It amused the young man mightily to 
hear his American baby lisp his words, Eng- 
lish fashion, chattering to his British nurse 
about the ‘‘lift” and the “luggage.” The 
shock of the alien accent never failed to 
provoke him to laughter; soon they would 
all go home, and little Roger would grow 
up in God’s country, an American citizen. 
Such was his sure belief. 

And then, in two days, the youth and 
strength of him were mowed down, and he 
lay dead in London. He had to be buried in 
England, and his young wife could not 
bear to leave his grave. So she took an old 
manor-house by Lynton, near the place 
where a gray stone cross bore the name, 
[ 103 ] 


OLD GLORY 


among other Shelbys, of this American one; 
for she had had the thought of laying him 
with his ancient kindred. And little Roger, 
in the west country, continued to talk like 
an Englishman, and his mother, remember- 
ing the big young laughter of the child’s 
father, liked it. 

Years sped on, till the child was fifteen. 
Then one day, when the house was full of 
boys, from the next room she heard them 
chattering over their game of billiards. 

‘‘It’s your giddy shot, you American bar- 
gee,” said Tom Cecil. 

“Chuck it,” Roger responded in kind. 
“I’m no more American than you.” This to 
the grandson of a British earl. 

“You jolly well are,” retorted young Cecil. 
“Wouldn’t he own to his giddy country, 
then.^ Oh, shame !” And the others joined in 
the chorus — “Oh, shame!” 

The big, fresh young voice which she knew 
best flung back an answer: “By gum, I’m as 
English as you are. My people simply lived a 
few generations across the ocean — that’s all. 

[ 104 ] 


THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER 

Why, the churchyard up there is full of my 
name. My hat ! I’m an Englishman,” he con- 
cluded defiantly. 

The boy’s mother stood for an instant in 
the shadows. Then she turned quickly and 
ran up-stairs and locked her door and sat 
down, staring from the window. She remem- 
bered a hot Fourth of July when her father 
had taught her to repeat Lincoln’s Gettys- 
burg speech; she remembered her husband’s 
upward shining look as they had caught 
sight, one day, of the Stars and Stripes over 
an embassy. Such memories flooded her. 
She had thrown away all that. She had done 
what an obscure woman could to betray her 
country. She had brought up her son to deny 
his flag. 

Suddenly she laughed. ‘‘Why, he’s a 
baby,” she said. “There’s plenty of time. 
When he gets to New York, when he breathes 
the air of the States, when he sails up the 
Hudson, sees the autunm colors” — and with 
that she was homesick. For the first time in 
thirteen years, homesick. But she said noth- 
[ 105 ] 


OLD GLORY 


ing, and the perfectly oiled life at Whele 
went on while she made and remade plans. 

And all the time Fate, with a psychological 
moment in her fingers, was steaming across 
the Atlantic, and on a day in the fulness of 
time Evelyn Shelby, still young and a pleas- 
ant thing to look at in Paris clothes, went to 
a dinner and met an American army officer. 
Fate smiled, and let the psychological mo- 
ment fly. 

Colonel Barron had to go home in two 
months. Over this Roger was rebellious, and 
because of his passionate protest Whele was 
not sold but leased. 

‘‘I’m coming back,” he defied the powers. 
“I may be young now, but I’ll grow up, and 
I’m not going to stay where I don’t belong. 
I’m an Englishman/’ His mother, thinking 
that the boy was going to stronger influence 
than he knew, smiled and did not speak. 
But the colonel, not so big as Roger, with a 
sunshiny laugh which seemed to win all the 
world, made answer: 

“All right, old chap. If your mother tries 
[ 106 ] 


THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER 


to bully you the way she does me, we’ll unite 
against her, won’t we?” Yet he winced some- 
times when Roger made that too frequent 
statement that he was an Englishman. 

It was not in boy-natme to fail to enjoy 
the post. It was a very desirable post, with 
mountain roads to gallop over and the great 
lake to swim in and sail on. 

The boy wasted none of his out-of-door 
opportunities, but continued as objectionable 
as a lad strong and manly and sound at the 
core might be to a military stepfather. His 
attitude about parade of an afternoon was 
typical. He would not imcover when the flag 
was lowered, and when admonished that he 
had better stay away, lurked in the back- 
ground, grinning and hatted and conspicu- 
ous. His stepfather, eager to love him, felt 
the effort to do so more of a strain every day. 

^‘My sufferin’ aunt,” Roger made oration 
at lunch. It was a warm day at the very end 
of February, and the boy had been out for 
a ride over snowy hills. ‘‘My sufferin’ aunt,” 
he began in his British tone and diction; 

[ 107 ] 


OLD GLORY 


‘‘old Wilkins, that first sergeant, is an 
amazin’ old pig-head, isn’t he?” 

“Is he?” Colonel Barron caught his wife’s 
nervous glance, and smiled. “He’s valuable, 
you know, Roger. Been in the army forty 
years. What’s he pig-headed about?” 

“Ridin’, sir,” said Roger. “I was at the 
stables to-day after I came in, and I was 
showin’ him the advantages of risin’ to the 
trot as we do in our army. He didn’t say 
much. But he growled out something about 
an infant tryin’ to instruct the American 
army.” 

Colonel Barron bit his lip. “The sergeant 
was right, Roger. It’s wrong of you to criticise 
our army with the men. If you want to talk 
things over with me, we’ll have a debate on 
that riding question. I believe the American 
army is in the right.” 

“The American army !” The boy laughed. 

“I said ‘The American Army’!” Colonel 
Barron repeated hotly. “In which I am 
proud to be an oflScer.” 

Roger laid down his knife and fork and 
[ 108 J 


THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER 

stared. ‘‘By gum! I’m awfully sorry I made 
you sore, sir. But, you see, the American 
army is funny — ^to an Englishman. Army ! 
There isn’t any. Nor navy. No history, nor 
record. Just a few thousand men, don’t you 
know.” 

The colonel rose and pushed back his chair. 

“Jack !” His wife went to him and slipped 
an arm around his neck, and he put up his 
hand and held hers. Yes, he would remember. 

“My lad,” the American said, “an army’s 
like a man; it doesn’t have to be big to have 
a soul. It is little — ^too little — our army, 
but it has a full-sized soul; yes, and a his- 
tory, too, and traditions, and loyalty, and 
a great country that would pour blood for 
it.” The colonel was on his feet, and his eyes 
flamed. “ Good Lord ! Have you never read 
of Washington and his ragged, frozen-footed 
mob at Valley Forge That was a hundred 
years ago — ^that was an American army — 
then. And it’s come down straight, imbroken, 
that tradition. The War of 1812, the Civil 
War: Grant, Phil Kearny, Stonewall Jackson, 
[ 109 ] 


OLD GLORY 


Lee — ^Lee, with his ragged, starved heroes, 
beaten by inches. We beat them, but they 
were Americans, those men who died for the 
Lost Cause. 

'‘The first thing our army ever did, those 
'old Continentals, in their ragged regimen- 
tals,’ the same old chaps I spoke of before, 
who didn’t have food or clothes or a govern- 
ment, even, was to whip England. That was 
the take-off. Any navy ! Did you ever hear 
of John Paul Jones You haven’t run across 
mention of one Perry on Lake Erie; or an 
old tub called the Constitution^ which fought 
the Guerriere and others ? Do you know any- 
thing, by chance, of a man called George 
Dewey, who with a few middle-sized ships, 
steamed quietly one bright Sunday morning 
down Manila Bay, twenty-six miles over 
waters said to be sown with he didn’t know 
what of torpedoes and mines ? The American 
army — ^navy — a thing for a child to laugh 
at ” 

The colonel stopped suddenly, turned his 
head and kissed his wife’s hand, which he 
[ 110 ] 


THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER 

still held on his shoulder, and smiled his 
sunshiny smile. ‘‘Now, that’s just it,” he 
said. “He’s a child. He’s trying to throw 
away his birthright. But I think he’s too 
fine a fellow to be a renegade. We’ll get him 
to understand, some time. We want big, 
strong, fighting men for Americans. We want 
you, Roger — ^and you’re ours.” 

The boy, fiushed to his fair hair, dumb, 
turned without a word and stumbled from 
the room. 

As the days passed after that, Roger went 
about work and play with a noticeable lack 
of words, and his mother, pondering his 
peculiarities, knew it was best to let the 
deeps work and not stir them. So she asked 
no questions, even when she wondered where 
the boy spent hours unaccounted for of 
afternoons. And one day she found out. She 
went into the town hbrary, and across the 
room by a window she caught sight of a 
well-known yellow head over a table littered 
with books. 

The librarian smiled. “He’s here every 

nil] 


OLD GLORY 


day/' she said. ‘‘He's eating up American 
history. He'll hardly grow up an Englishman 
at this rate, Mrs. Barron." And Evelyn 
Barron fled, anxious not to know her son's 
secrets till he should tell them to her. 

The evenings and the mornings continued 
to come and go till it was the middle of 
March and, at this northern post, still win- 
ter. And then on a day after mild weather 
and winds, a snap of sharp cold came, and 
the half-thawed lake was frozen smoothly 
and the skating perfect. 

“I'm going up to Pontiac this afternoon 
to get real Indian moccasins for my snow- 
shoes," Roger announced. “They're beastly 
things down here." 

They saw him, with skate-sails spread, 
float out on the shining lake. An hour later 
it began to snow, and when Roger's mother 
came in at seven the air was thickly white. 
But she did not think of the boy till she 
came down to dinner. 

“Where's Roger?" she demanded of her 
husband. 


[in] 


THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER 

“You don't mean he isn't home from 
Pontiac yet?" 

“I don't know. I've been at the Krebs's 
tea, and stayed late. Jack — " she looked at 
him. 

“Oh, no. He's likely about the town some- 
where and has forgotten it's dinner-time. 
Don’t worry, Evelyn. I’ll telephone — ^let me 
think where." But telephoning to many 
places failed to bring information. 

It was five miles to Pontiac; not much of 
a trip for a hardy boy with skate-sails. But 
the snow would have made the skating hard. 
There might have been holes hidden by the 
snow — Evelyn Barron pounded her hand 
fiercely on a table. Holes — ^in the ice — wholes ! 
Her yellow-headed Roger — ^her little boy, for 
all of his six feet three ! She looked at her 
husband, standing by his untouched dinner. 
He had been standing there, frowning, bit- 
ing his lip, for three minutes now. 

Then, “Don’t be frightened," he said. 
“It’s probably all right. But we can't take 
risks. I’m going to call out the regiment and 
[113 1 


OLD GLORY 


ask for volunteers for a search-party.” He 
took down the telephone and gave a num- 
ber. 

''Captain Barker?” he asked. In a dozen 
words he explained the situation. "Have 
the bugler sound the assembly,” he said. 
"The men will come to the riding-hall. 

"We’ll bring back the yoimg devil safe 
and sound from some wild-goose chase,” he 
assured his wife. "And if you don’t thrash 
him, I will.” 

But his face was grave as he hurried 
across the parade-groimd to the riding-hall. 
The bugle-call of the assembly still rang in 
the cold air; soldiers were pouring by. Within 
an incredibly short time six hundred men, 
all of the regiment, stood in silent ranks. 

"Men,” spoke the colonel, "I called you 
together to ask for volunteers for a search- 
party. A boy has been lost. When last seen 
he was skating on the lake. It’s probable that 
he has missed his direction in the storm, 
and if so he is in danger of freezing to death. 
The boy is my stepson. Those who are will- 
[ 114 ] 


THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER 

ing to join a search-party will take one pace 
forward/’ 

There was silence for a space of two long 
breaths, and then with an even swing the 
whole regiment advanced a pace. Something 
caught in the colonel’s throat. 

There was rapid consultation then, and the 
order was given to fall out, to meet again at 
the landing in ten minutes, with torches, of 
which there happened to be a supply in 
town from a late political festival. That was 
the quick thought of Sergeant Wilkins. In 
less than half an hour a strange and gorgeous 
spectacle was forming out across the steely 
lake, through the ever-coming, all-pervading 
snow. 

Meanwhile, up the lake a boy had been 
fighting alone for his life for two hours. In 
spite of warnings he had started back, un- 
concernedly, at five o’clock. It was fairly 
light till six-thirty, and he had no doubt of 
making port in spite of a snow-storm. Also, 
the wind was with him; the sails would take 
him along ‘^rippingly.” Then, a mile from 
[ 115 ] 


OLD GLORY 


Pontiac, a sail broke and it took time to 
patch it; in another half-mile it broke again. 
The snow was steady now; it was growing 
colder; twilight was coming on. A fellow’s 
fingers were stiff; the strings were poorly 
tied this time, so shortly the apparatus came 
to pieces again, and with that the lad de- 
cided that it was safer to take to plain 
skating. 

Already snow lay thick on the ice, and 
skating was impeded, yet there was nothing 
else for it. Falling once or twice, for it was 
impossible to tell good from bad going, he 
pushed ahead. All at once he was aware with 
a shock that he did not know which way 
to go. 

The boy whistled. ‘‘My sainted Sam! 
What a bore!” he adjured the situation 
aloud, and then pulled his fur cap farther 
down over his ears and buttoned up his 
jacket. 

He peered through the white-falling 
clouds, soft, unhurried, pitiless. ‘‘I’m hanged 
if I know,” he whispered, yet realized that 
[ 1 


THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER 


wherever he went, he must move. Not to go 
was to be frozen. 

He skated ahead; and time went, and 
slowly the cold was conquering, despite 
efforts and young blood. Yet he did not con- 
sider being afraid. There was indeed some- 
thing horrible which came near to his mind 
and gripped at it, now and again, but he 
grunted aloud at that something; a fellow 
might, of course, have to curl up and die, 
but it was not necessary for a fellow to 
whine. 

At or about the time of that argument he 
became conscious of a slight dizziness. He 
had been going, though he did not know it, 
as lost men mostly do, in a narrowing circle. 
Shortly after, a tired foot tripped. 

‘'Never mind — don^t bother — ^just want to 
think — to thi — to ’’ 

His voice aroused him. “Golly !” This was 
no game, to go to sleep on the lake; one 
must get home. But his muscles were slow 
to answer. And then his left ankle balked ! 
Something broken or sprained. That settled 
[ 117 ] 


OLD GLORY 


it; he rather preferred it this way; he would 
lie down and think for a few minutes — think 
— th — His eyes were closing. 

Then a curious business occurred. He was 
roused suddenly. He had an idea that he 
was in church, and that it was Christmas or 
Easter. There were all sorts of lights — a 
choir carrying lights, probably. What a gor- 
geous spectacle ! Millions and millions of 
lights coming — up the aisle — all over the 
cathedral. Golly ! This was the right sort of 
service, worth while, this was. His mind 
slipped onward — end of the world, this must 
be — ^good old world. Armies of the Lord. 
Words that he had heard all his life surged 
above consciousness, took form as if flashing 
through blackness, like the lights there. 

'‘Terrible as an army with banners,’’ 
he muttered, staring. And then, "Light to 
them — ^in darkness — the shadow of death — 
shadow. And to guide our feet” — ^the words 
flamed; the lights flamed; for the dim, sub- 
merged mind it was hard to tell which were 
lights and which were words. 

[ 118 ] 


THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER 


The mystic array drew nearer, up the 
black lake, blurred by storm into hazy circles 
of orange, yards and yards across; an endless 
light of glory, an army, a dream. People who 
have come out of an anaesthetic, through the 
reeling mid-ocean where a small human 
consciousness tosses and struggles toward its 
own little back creek, know where the boy’s 
brain stood at this moment. 

The lights were close now; on the edge of 
consciousness he knew that, yet was too far 
gone to wonder, to adjust. Then suddenly 
a great hoarse challenge, shouts, a roar of 
voices, things springing to him through the 
lights — devils — angels — angels ? Heaven — 
hell ? He had fainted. A nasty taste — ^for the 
boy did not like whiskey — waked him, cough- 
ing and sputtering. 

"^Stop that beastly chokin’ me,” he or- 
dered, and it was Sergeant Wilkins’s voice 
that answered. Roger looked up, astonished, 
into the old Indian fighter’s face. Sergeant 
Wilkins was holding him like a baby, kneeling 
there on the ice. 


[1191 


OLD GLORY 


“There, there, sonny-boy,’^ crooned the 
sergeant. “It’s all right. You lay back on 
my shoulder and the old man will take care 
of ye. Thank the Lord you’re alive. Lay back. 
Thank the Lord!” 

And Roger dropped his head comfortably 
on that war-hardened pillow and was glad. 
Torches were flaring and reeking up around 
him; men crowded on each other to see him; 
then a voice from the general universe said: 
“Here’s the colonel,” and the men fell back, 
the torches were held high, and Roger beheld 
his stepfather bending to him, speaking a 
broken word. With the whiskey making a 
long, hot streak inside of him, sending blood 
to the numb brain, he blinked up into the 
colonel’s face, and then beyond — ^to the men, 
the lines of brown army coats, snowy under 
the waving lights, the men standing there in 
the bitter cold, smiling. 

With that the colonel, wheeling, gave a 
swift order, and the bugler, who was one of 
the first behind Sergeant Wilkins, lifted his 
instrument and sent out over the frozen 
[ 120 ] 


THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER 


lake the assembly, and far-away lights 
whirled and danced and came trooping. 

Roger lifted his head from Sergeant Wil- 
kins’s shoulder as the clear call rang through 
the icy darkness, and suddenly, to his infinite 
amazement, a rush of feeling caught him. 
They had saved him, these men in khaki — 
he belonged to them. What better thing was 
there than to be one of them, to be — Amer- 
ican ? His head fell back. 

We’ll get him home as fast as possible, 
sergeant,” the colonel said. “He’s fainted 
again,” 

There was grave question for a long time 
whether the boy would live. The broken 
ankle was a small thing, but pneumonia de- 
veloped next day, and for weeks he lay be- 
tween two worlds. And all the time in his 
delirium he talked. His inmost, shy boy- 
heart was uncovered, and the colonel, stand- 
ing by his bed, turned away often with wet 
eyes. 

“I didn’t know I was a renegade, mum- 
my,” the boy babbled. “I meant it square. 

[ 121 ] 


OLD GLORY 


I thought I had a right to be an Englishman. 
It’s ripping, old England — old history — 
fighting men.” Then he would lie quiet, 
staring at the ceiling. ‘‘Fighting men — oh, 
yes — not mine. It’s not my country; I see 
that, sir. I suppose I’m a renegade.” 

Then slowly, in a carrying, crazy whisper: 
“A man called George Dewey, who steamed 
down Manila Bay one Sunday morning — a 
few middle-sized war-ships.” And then: 
“Washington at Valley Forge — ^poor old 
chaps; no shoes; frozen. It’s beastly to be 
frozen. I know.” Then, crushing his mother’s 
hand in his, “Why didn’t you tell me I was 
an ass, mummy A fellow ought to keep to 
— ^his own flag.” 

And with that he would fall asleep — to 
wake up in half an hour, going over and 
over the same trouble. 

“If the child’s mind isn’t relieved in some 
way it will be brain fever, too,” the doctor 
said; and with that Colonel Barron had an 
inspiration. 

Sergeant Wilkins crept up the stairs, 
[ 122 ] 


THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER 

creaking small thunderbolts in a laborious 
effort to be quiet. The tossing skeleton on 
the bed lay still for a moment as the door 
opened, and then Mrs. Barron was startled, 
for a hoarse, weak shout rang out. The cav- 
ernous eyes flamed at the sergeant. 

‘‘Oh, bully!’' cried Roger. “I want him; 
I want to apologize.” 

The colonel’s arms came around his wife 
and closed the door softly from outside. 
“Let them fight it out,” he whispered. “I’ve 
an idea the sergeant will prove a good doc- 
tor.” 

From that time on, the boy got well. He 
spoke little and seemed to be always think- 
ing, thinking; but strength came. One bright 
day in May, when the weather was unreason- 
ably hot, he was well enough to be down- 
stairs for lunch. 

“I want you to go to parade this after- 
noon,” the colonel said to his wife. “The gen- 
eral is here, you know, and there’s to be a 
short review and drill. There are lots of vis- 
itors and it’s a fine day, and everybody’s 
[ 123 1 


OLD GLORY 


coming, so it will be a function. You’ve been 
tied to that bag of bones long enough.” 

‘"Yes, mummy, you must go. I’m all right. 
In fact, I don’t want you about; I want to 
sleep in peace.” So she went. 

The general sat his horse like a soldierly 
statue, his staflF, rigid and impressive, lined 
up behind him, mounted also, in the glory 
of much gold braid, while the regiment went 
through its evolutions. 

The drill ended with a charge in which 
the long line of horses swept across the 
parade-ground, the men, with sabres raised, 
riding as only American cavalrymen ride. 
Mrs. Barron was aware of a slight stir 
around her; that people were looking at her 
and then away at some one who approached. 
Her eyes followed their eyes. 

Through the gala crowd, towering above 
everybody, stalked a form which made her 
pulse stop. What everybody was looking at, 
to the neglect of the regiment, was a very 
tall boy — abnormally tall in his lank thin- 
ness. His last summer’s white flannel clothes 
[ 124 ] 


THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER 


hung on his bones in folds; the fur cap of 
the perilous expedition was on his head. He 
made his way slowly, swaying a little — ^for 
he was weak — till he had wandered down 
into the field itself, close to the stakes which 
marked it off and well forward of the general 
and his staff. 

With that, as he stood there, the eyes of 
all the gay crowd fixed on him, the parade 
ended, and the afternoon’s doings were over, 
and from the fort on the hill the sunset gun 
boomed. Then the soldiers by the great flag- 
staff were seen to be pulling ropes, and 
swiftly the flag, the Stars and Stripes of 
America, began to slip down. The band 
struck sharply into the “Star-Spangled Ban- 
ner.” It was a good band, and the martial mu- 
sic came out with a swing; perhaps every one 
there fitted the stirring words to the melody: 

“Oh, say, can you see by the dawn’s early light.” 

The proud words sang themselves to the 
bold air, and ended triumphantly: 

“The Star-Spangled Banner, oh, long may it wave 
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.” 

IU5] 


OLD GLORY 


Every one was standing; every man’s hat 
was off, and there was a moment of hushed 
silence, of reverence for the descending col- 
ors. Roger’s mother, breathing quickly, her 
eyes on her boy, saw him standing alone far 
in front of every one, unconscious of any 
one. A scarlet line ran across his hollow 
cheeks, the fur cap was lifted high over his 
shining young head, the head was thrown 
back and his burning eyes were fixed on the 
flag — ^his flag — with a look of worship. 

It was suddenly all over. The boy turned, 
his face solenm and bright. Every one fell 
back as he came to her, for the look in his 
eyes and in hers. 

‘‘Mummy,” said the boy, battling for 
breath, for he was very tired — ^holding to a 
chair with one hand, his other hand on his 
mother’s shoulder, his eyes brilliant — “mum- 
my,” said Roger Shelby, “I’m an American !” 


[ 126 ] 


I 












m 




'» i. 


I 


\ V 


t 






i^«) 








J* 






I 




IS 


,T.i! 


¥ 


•'I 








^< « 




i 


^l■:< 


iy-.^ 


mh 




r.A 


i\ 


4 ' 




» f 


’.< V 


< I 


4 ' 


> I 


.r 






w» 


r t 

r- 








v 




'V 


^:j\ 


•\ 


Of 


(jA, 


">* V 


V 


♦' 4 * 


>y 




\ / 


»/ . 4 


I ' I 


* 

> 


• i . -■' ^ 


31 




.^ 4 \ 


a-' 


Vi 


V*,*, 


V 




n. 


m 




i • • 


\jt 


fv< 


S > 


'i 


1 / 


/ ’< . I 




>'A 


V!. 


I • » 




kfl 




;k' 


« y 


i.:.^vr 






EEiil^ 


At 



-i ''^ V ' ■ ' ■■ ■ ' ' * ' ' ■'' 'Si 

Kb*## ; i' : ;.:<?>.* 


4 1 

f 


*•*»' 


I f ioV- '.4 ‘. . ^'N. 4x'\A L :‘ii ■ v'^^SmirH 

iSl 









i 


I 



J 

Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing Agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: . . . 



Bbbkkeeper 


PRESERVATION TECHNOLOGIES, INC 
1114 William Rinn Highway 
Glenshaw. PA 15116-2657 
412-486-1161 



I ^ : 


f **"- 







7* if '.r .i .-\ 

f f«B- 4 

.. 4 * 4 . . . 




* • 1 ™ . 



■■/^'r*.- ' • u’*4 






